


Shadow Empire

by Krocken



Category: Chrono Trigger, Game of Thrones (TV), Goblin Slayer (Manga), Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Hyper Light Drifter, Mass Effect Trilogy, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Darkness, F/M, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:41:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25041079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krocken/pseuds/Krocken
Summary: A grim cold world of kingdoms stands on an uneasy peace...and soon warfare may break out. The stories told are those making their existence.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 3





	1. Trouble Brewing

The Northlands: a kingdom nestled within the coldest region of the continent of Midteros, protected not only by a substantial military presence, but also its dreary, chilling climate. Anyone who wished to live off the land in the Northland's countryside needed the strength of a Nord, the patience of a monk, and the instincts of a predatory animal.

Yet this kingdom lacked a king, and had for some time. A long line of stewards had kept the peace instead, the Starks. This often meant dealing with the sovereigns of neighboring kingdoms.

Such as it was, the current steward was making his way home after one such summit: Eddard "Ned" Stark.

He felt tired, as all meetings tended to do to him. But it was all needed to help keep the peace, and to understand the needs of the others around him. One wrong move and many would die.

He rode alongside his eldest son, Robb, and Sir Gelu. The ice Glatorian was a reliable bodyguard, and tight-lipped under pressure. Robb, while young, was a proven warrior, enough for his father to take him into his confidence. A small detachment of soldiers made up the rest of the retinue.

Though the journey had been a long one, they were finally in sight of the city of Winterfell's sentry fires. Ned smiled as he rode on, looking forward to seeing the rest of his family again.

Yes...it was good to be home after all those tedious events.

The city gates opened, and in they rode, pressing on to the Starks' ancestral home near Winterfell Castle. Robb tried to suppress a shiver as he slowly felt the warmth of the torchlight setting in. Ever the stoic, Gelu showed no signs of discomfort whatsoever, though his physiology was a likely part of it.

Techno-organic...had its advantages.

Home was on the mind now, and it would be good to finally sit and rest for a time, after the long journey. It was good that said journey was uneventful. No bandits or demons, just scattered animals.

Yes, they were home again, safe and sound...

"They're here!" Rickon yelped, darting away from the window from where he'd been watching. "They're finally here!"

The youngest of the Stark children raced down the stairs, eager to be the first to greet his father, when a small hand reached out and grabbed him by the back of his tunic.

"After me, little one," a perky voice taunted as the hand's owner, one Arya Stark, ran ahead of her dismayed little brother.

Such children...but their youth and excitement never failed to warm their father's heart, compared to the cold world they lived in.

Once their horses were in the stables, and their military escort dispersed back to the barracks, Ned and his eldest entered the Stark wing of the castle with Gelu by their side... just in time for Rickon and Arya to push and shove their way to the front door.

"Mind the space, little one!" Arya taunted.

"I'm twelve, you cheater!" Rickon protested. Ned couldn't help but chuckle.

"Come now, no need for that," he said as he pulled both of them into an embrace. Rickon immediately latched onto his father, his fussing over his supposed maturity disappearing. Arya similarly cooled from her adolescent mischief as she felt the bristle of her father's whiskers against her cheek.

Yes...after all the stuffiness...good to be back with these rascals. He missed them. Always missed his family while he was away.

Robb let a household servant help him out of his traveling furs as he watched the touching scene and asked, "Is Sansa nearby? I've something to give her."

"What, another mash note from that Gondor boy?" Arya said a little too loud. Sure enough, as if on cue, Sansa came into the hall, her eyes narrowed in annoyance at her little sister's cheekiness.

"Faramir is a perfect gentleman," she retorted as she accepted the love letter Robb handed to her.

It would be good for relations, yes, but it was important as well to make sure they were good for each other.

"What was it like, father, going back to Gondor?" asked Arya.

"Did you see your double?" asked Rickon, referring to a knight of that realm who bore an uncanny resemblance to Ned himself.

"Ah, we'll have time to discuss everything," the steward assured his adoring children, "but now I need to attend to other matters."

Namely, seeing to his wife and making sure she was doing well.

Catelyn Stark excused herself from her ladies-in-waiting, having learned of her husband's arrival from the faint but recognizable sounds of her excited children. While her husband had been off negotiating with diplomats and chewing the fat with King Aragorn, she'd been handling much of Ned's usual administrative duties. But she was a mother of five children, and it wasn't difficult for her to manage several things at once.

Experience and age taught her well on how to run the land as well as her husband.

"Neddy, dear," she greeted him as they met in a tasteful upstairs chamber before kissing his bearded cheek. "How was the summit?"

"Oh, surprisingly eventful, Cat," Ned replied, embracing his wife. "Same old ceremonies, of course."

Of course. Things were somewhat peaceful nowadays, as long as everyone did their dues.

"There was... one particular item that came up," Ned admitted. "Aragorn had been negotiating with Coriolanus some time before, and received some odd requests from him."

Catelyn couldn't help but flinch. King Coriolanus Snow of Panem, once an undistinguished bastard from the Northlands, had succeeded where Robert Baratheon had failed and overthrown the Mad King Aerys without once setting foot on the battlefield. King's Landing and its surrounding lands had united under him as the kingdom of Panem. Snow was an intelligent man, unnervingly so, and he knew how to get what he wanted.

Not to mention out of his mind. And that was made him so dangerous as a person.

"What did he want?" asked Catelyn, though she wasn't sure whether she wanted to know.

"He was laying claim to a cove in the border region between Panem and Gondor," Ned explained, "apparently it held strategic importance."

This was a sensitive matter indeed. Ever since Coriolanus consolidated his power, all neighboring kingdoms had taken measures to ensure they could put as much neutral space as possible between themselves and Panem. Any man who would go so far as to drink the same poison as his rivals to throw off suspicion was not someone to be trifled with.

But he was not the only dangerous person. Zeal was also a factor to be considered.

The Queen was a dangerous woman, arrogant yet intelligent, with immense magical power.

If the two of them were to become allies...

"Has Aragorn responded?" Catelyn dared to ask.

"Yes and no," Ned replied. "He's given Snow an excuse for the time being, but they'll have to discuss it again in a month."

A grim nod. Hard to get an answer that would satisfy in the spur of the moment. But also gave time for a good lie.

"Hello?" a young voice called out, drawing the attention of the couple. "Something wrong?"

It was Bran, the second youngest of the Stark children. He had overheard his parents conversing in hushed tones. Shifting her demeanor to a more comforting one, Catelyn smiled and approached her son, ruffling his hair.

"Not at all, Bran. I was just welcoming your father."

Bran was a quiet one, always observant to the things around him. Mature air about him at times.

There was still one more person Ned needed to speak with about the summit. Not a member of his family... at least, not by blood or marriage. No, this man was the kind of brother Ned had gained on the battlefield. Excusing himself from the company of his wife and son, Ned headed to the northern wing.

It was time to speak to the Shepherd.

A fine warrior, and someone Ned deeply trusted.

The steward of the Northlands descended a staircase to an underground cell. Despite the rough furnishings, this was where Ned's old comrade came to exercise, keeping his skills sharp. There was little natural light within the cell, and it took a moment for Ned's eyesight to adjust.

He listened carefully until he was sure he heard the faint sound of breathing before clearing his throat. A man dropped to the floor behind him, landing on his feet like a predatory cat.

"Ned," the man said in a calm baritone. "I trust the journey went well."

"John," Ned replied, not yet turning around. Despite his authority over John, they were on a first name basis. "Certainly no interruptions this time."

Indeed, a previous trip to Gondor had seen Ned's traveling party run afoul of Jackal's gang.

Jackal...a bandit lord who was know for his sheer cruelty, ruthless nature...and deep cowardice. He would fight those weaker than him, and try to worm his way out of any situation.

Had John not been part of Ned's military escort that day, he would have pursued the fleeing criminal and seen to his destruction. While he was a loyal vassal and a charismatic leader, John the Shepherd could be downright cruel given enough provocation.

"How goes the rose garden?" the knight inquired, referring to the Northlands' relations with Panem. As he spoke, he pulled his tunic back on.

"I'm afraid our suspicions are well-founded," Ned sighed as he turned around. "The gardener is reaching out for more land."

"And fertile lands he wants," John noted. "But he'll be damned if he's getting any."

The two men started back up the stairs. Illuminated by torchlight, John's face came into view. His close-cropped dark hair and trimmed beard allowed his robust head shape and strong jawline to stand out. A scar ran across the bridge of his nose, a remnant of a crossbow bolt he'd taken to the face during a previous military campaign.

"Be that as it may," Ned sighed, "he's pressuring our friend in Gondor to acquiesce, and they are due to discuss the matter again in a month."

"That's good," John nodded. "We can work out a contingency plan in case old Snow gets any ideas."

Gondor was still recovering from the ravages of war. While they had the best-trained army on the continent, their reserves were still anemic compared to the Northlands' populous forces.

Warlords all about, like that fat one, K. Rool. A crocodile known for his skill in the battlefield and devious cunning. And unlike Jackal, he was no coward, and knew he had to take risks at time.

Deranged or not, his intelligence and ruthlessness were worth admiring.

"How is morale?" Ned asked as they reached the ground floor.

"From what I've seen, the garrisons are upbeat, if a bit stir-crazy," John admitted. "We can always send them out on maneuvers near the borderland."

That was a good way to keep their forces' skills honed, but getting too close to the border might alarm neighboring nations.

Hmmm...

"Likely not that far, just enough out to keep an eye on our lands better."

"I understand, sir," John said with a nod. "I'll send word immediately."

Ned nodded, silent as he thoughts. Things felt...tense. Not bad, just tense, like breath before the plunge.

John's commitment to leading the troops was some comfort, but neither man wanted to experience the horrors of war again any time soon. This age of peace had been long, but it was still fragile. One wrong word, one bad deal, one mistaken action could tear it all apart.

Ned and his trusted general parted ways, and the steward returned to his family's wing of the castle. For now, he'd hide those concerns away and spend his time with the people who mattered most to him. These were the important moments, and he wanted to experience them while he could.

Peace...hold on to it as much as one could, and hope for the future to be bright. For the sake of his loved ones.


	2. Shining City

The kingdom of Gondor had been through a wringer of misfortunes. For all its picaresque countryside and storied history, the past century had not been kind to its people; from civil war to piracy, they had much to rebuild. But with their new king, Aragorn II, there was a glimmer of hope that they could turn things around.

It would not be easy.

Much has happened, buildings to be replaced, knowledge to regain and rewrite, and people organized...

And so it came one late afternoon that a cloaked figure made their way to the king's palace, passing through a city square buzzing with traveling merchants selling their goods at steep discounts and sturdy masons repairing damaged roads and fortifications. The stranger's face was hidden behind a red mask, and a greatsword and longbow hung on their back.

A message was to be delivered, to make sure things and people were ready.

The palace guards bowed to the masked warrior as he approached, granting him entry without comment. Drifter, the hero of Gondor, had arrived to meet with his king.

His origins...unknown, but his skill with scouting and fighting were top-notch, and his loyalty was to the King here.

As for the king himself, he was having an intimate moment with Arwen, his elven queen, in the palace courtyard. It was... comforting to experience a moment of respite from the difficulties of ruling the kingdom.

"You wished to speak with me?" he asked his wife. Arwen took his hands in hers, her gentle eyes sparkling with excitement.

"My sweet lord, I am with child," she beamed.

That WAS good news. The next generation coming to the world.

Now it was time to make sure the child would grow in a peaceful environment.

Their celebration would have to wait, however, as they both caught sight of Drifter arriving in the courtyard. He bowed his head and bent the knee as a gesture of respect. Caressing his queen's face, Aragorn said, "We shall celebrate this later, my love."

With a knowing smile, Arwen nodded and replied, "I shall await you in the parlor."

As she left, Queen Arwen passed by Drifter, letting him take her hand and touch it to his forehead. The swordsman never unmasked in the presence of others, making some social practices difficult for him. Once the two men were alone, Aragorn nodded to Drifter to rise.

"It seems I interrupted a private moment, my lord," Drifter remarked.

"Perhaps, but your presence indicates something of great importance as well," Aragorn noted as the two walked together. "In that case, what do you have?"

"The Black Swordsman's military reforms are going smoothly," Drifter explained. "After all that has happened, your vassals are turning over command of their militias to the crown. It seems that no one wants to risk another civil conflict."

"That is very good news," Aragorn nodded. The Black Swordsman, also known as Guts, was a fierce warrior whom the king had hired to improve Gondor's army, unifying the various militias under one banner. It had been a risky undertaking, as the nobles of Gondor had a long history of infighting.

Bad enough other kingdoms being threats. Squabbling amongst each other was a terrible idea these days.

"There is more," Drifter explained. "The border towns are restless. I heard reports of suspicious activity in the nearby wilderness."

Aragorn was alert, stopping in his tracks, and asked, "From whom?"

A thousand scenarios were running through his head as he remembered Coriolanus Snow's peculiar demands for additional land. Surely the old man wasn't so audacious as to already have troops assembled? But nothing could have prepared him for what came out of Drifter's mouth next.

"Goblins."

Few people took Golbins seriously. That was bad. Those little bastards were an entire race of sociopaths. They despoiled lands and raped women whenever they could, all for their own enjoyment.

"Which border towns are seeing the most of this activity?" Aragorn pressed.

"The southernmost ones, close to the Wild Corridor," Drifter replied. The Wild Corridor was the name given to a stretch of unoccupied land serving as a buffer zone between Panem and Gondor. Both Aragorn and Snow had agreed not to place settlements or military encampments there.

Namely because of how dangerous it could be. Wild animals and Goblins could pick off any troops there.

It was also, oddly enough, the site of the cove Snow was so interested in annexing to Panem. Aragorn was no fool; he knew the king of Panem would take a mile if given an inch. But why was he so interested in such a seemingly useless piece of land?

He would have to look into that soon...

"I'll present the matter to Guts," Aragorn said at length. "We are stretched thin as it is, but he may be able to send a few troops to the southern region. And you, Drifter, I have a special mission for you."

"I am at your disposal."

One of utmost importance. If he could not do it, few could.

"I have received word from our friend in the North about a certain warlord converging his forces near our mutual border," Aragorn explained. "There is reason to believe he may be taking advantage of our decreased military strength to harass our settlements up there, but it also presents us with a golden opportunity to capture him. Take a small detachment of our elite guards, and hunt down Jackal."

"It will be done, my lord," Drifter said with a bow. He would not take this assignment for granted. Jackal might be a coward who turned tail at the first sign of immediate danger, but his raids on caravans and mining towns added up over time. They had to nip him in the bud.

Not to mention he was detestable piece of scum. He only picked on those weaker on him, as was his creed. And if it benefited him, he would sacrifice his own men for his survival.

Drifter headed out to the garrison to choose his team. Sir Boromir would likely have a few recommendations for him.

Gondor was known for good fighters, all ready to defend their homeland. Trackers were also useful to hunt down that weasel.

"Pursuing the Jackal Gang, eh?" Boromir sighed. "Well, you have your work cut out for you, Drifter. You will need men of stamina as well as strength."

"Have you any suggestions?" Drifter asked him.

Time to look to see what they had to offer.

First there was Jeremy, a reformed hoodlum who was the youngest of eight brothers and a swift runner and horseman. Though he was only a recent conscript, and an enthusiastic one at that, Jeremy already had the makings of an effective and deadly scout.

He also had the conversational energy of a small child.

"As I live and breathe, the mighty Drifter! My brothers never thought any of us would ever get to meet you! Well, now I've something else to hold over them, ahahahaha! They all think with their muscles, but I always got to the fight before any of them! Speaking of which, you wouldn't be needing a fast man, would you? Not that I'm slighting you, I just heard you were looking for a few good men, and I thought, why not me? And-"

"If I let you join, will you stop talking?"

"Yes..."

The next fighter was another rough one, Ragna. A tall, well-built young man with rude exterior, yet a good heart. His sword/scythe weapon was massive, yet he knew how to use it.

He fell in line without so much as a hello, but the harsh look in his eyes was worth a thousand words.

Next was Sir Reinhardt, an old hand among the guards and one of Gondor's legendary heroes. Though technically retired and serving a ceremonial position, he wouldn't be dissuaded from offering his assistance. His age did little to diminish his skill in battle.

"These old bones have plenty of fight left in them!" he boomed.

"It would be an honor, Sir Reinhardt," Drifter replied, his tone respectful. Reinhardt's experience would be invaluable out there, as would his willingness to be a living shield if necessary.

Anyone else available...? Did not look like it.

Still, for a four-man team, they had plenty of power between them, and quality over quantity was how Drifter had taken out an entire army of amphibian supremacists back during the war. Besides, Jackal would surely underestimate them.

Smug little prick. Still, time to track him down.

As they were headed out, they encountered Boromir's younger brother Faramir, who despite his youth was a master strategist capable of rivaling Robb Stark.

"Off to face the wolf-riders, eh?" Faramir observed. "Word of caution: he may attempt to distract you with hostages if he knows you are coming."

Drifter nodded and replied, "That gang's wolf mounts won't smell us if we stay downwind of them."

"And don't forget," Faramir added. "He learned the art of explosives."

Another dangerous factor. Few people had that sort of technology, and for good reason; it was easier to deploy than magic, but far more volatile.

And the effects were...messy at times. Bodies could not always be identified.

With these warnings in mind, the group mounted their steeds and rode north. Jeremy couldn't help but start talking again, but as long as it was only to Reinhardt, Drifter didn't mind.

Eventually he would have to keep quiet anyways, as so not to alert any foes of their approach.

They soon came upon one of the affected towns, following reports from travelers and refugees. Judging from some of the burned dwellings and slaughtered livestock, Jackal's gang had definitely been here.

Without mercy or compassion. The scum were among the worst the world had to offer.

"They couldn't have gone far," Drifter remarked. "Come, there should be signs of their movements."

"Righto," Jeremy declared, riding ahead to track the gang. Ragna joined him.

Jackal was a coward, yes, but also a sneaky little bastard because of it. Never knew what he might try.

As Jeremy and Ragna scouted ahead, they spotted a peasant woman bound to a stake in the ground. Her dress was torn at the skirt and bodice, revealing her legs and breasts, and a cloth was tied over her mouth as a gag. But she wasn't moving.

"This don't look right," Jeremy remarked. Young as he was, his instincts were sharp as any soldier's from his time on the streets. Ragna nodded.

"That's bait right there if ever I saw it," he muttered. "That girl is already dead."

Quickly, all hands were to weapons...Drifter eyes darted about, his tracking instincts honed.

For a moment, there was nothing... then they heard the growls of wolves.

"What's wrong, gentlemen?" a man's voice taunted them. "Can't be bothered to save the damsel in distress?"

It was a cruel remark, given that the bound woman had most likely been raped and tortured to death.

"Too afraid to show your face?" Ragna jeered back.

"Come closer if you dare, you royal dogs!"

With that, the Jackal Gang started turning out. They sat astride their huge wolves, some of which still had blood on their bared fangs. They all kept their distance from the four warriors, as if gauging them.

All males, these roughneck punks were nothing more that cruel bullies and killers. Some of Gondor referred to them as scum of the lowest order.

And in the middle of the crowd, the boss of them all: Jackal. The man towered over his goons, dressed in furs and clenching a lit cigar in his teeth as he gave Drifter and his team a predatory grin.

"Just four of you?" he leered. "I figured that hobo king was hard up for troops, but if we knew it was THIS bad, we'd have stormed the capital by now!"

Drifter ignored the bandits as they started laughing and asked, "Are you going to come quietly, Jackal?"

He took stock of the wolves. Battered, yet bloodthirsty, a far cry from the noble animals they were meant to be. 

Jackal scoffed at Drifter's impertinence. "Think you clowns can take us all on at once, mask boy?"

"Let's see what you got, coward," Drifter replied.

That turned Jackal’s grin into a scowl. The time for talk was over. It was time to put up or shut up.

He had the advantage of numbers this time.

"Get 'em, boys!" he bellowed, and the gang converged on the four warriors. Outnumbered as they were, however, Drifter and the others flourished under pressure.

The reason they were picked, after all.

First, Reinhardt slammed his warhammer against the ground, sending out a shock wave that knocked several bandits off their wolves... and detonated several hidden bombs across the field that had been meant to be triggered by any careless would-be peasant maiden rescuers.

Clever little sneaks. But still scum in the end. Drifter moved at top speed to cut some foes down.

Jeremy and Ragna took off in separate directions, counterattacking the foes that tried to flank them. Ragna brandished his big sword with ease, while Jeremy made use of a mace to crush his enemies' skulls.

Drifter was fast...faster than most could see with his flash-step. Several men were bisected.

A few of them had crude grenades, which they lobbed at the slow-moving Reinhardt and his bear mount, but the old warrior's armor was strong enough to withstand dragon's breath. He simply laughed and struck back with some combustion of his own, courtesy of the enchantment on his two-handed maul.

Jackal himself hung back, lobbing bombs when he could.

"He's got a strong position, the bastard," Ragna growled as he decapitated three men in a single blow.

"Not for long," Jeremy boasted. "Watch this!"

He spurred his pony, standing up on its back as it broke into a run. As they passed in front of Jackal, Jeremy leaped from its back, his mace raised. Scoffing, Jackal threw another one of his bombs at the airborne lad when something most unexpected happened...

...Jeremy jumped again. In midair. The bomb sailed under him harmlessly.

“The hell-“

It happened to fast.

Jeremy descended upon Jackal, slamming his mace upside the brute's head and knocking him off his wolf. The gang leader fell to the ground, a pool of blood growing around his head like a morbid halo.

Panic filled the bandit's mind. This was death almost!

"Did you see that, lads?" Jeremy boasted, shouldering his mace.

"Quite the feat, indeed," Ragna conceded, "but you're getting ahead of yourself."

"Aye, we still have to secure the area," Reinhardt agreed. "Who knows what other nasty surprises he could have left for us."

Already the other bandits had scattered.

Jackal lay still, playing dead until he was sure the warriors weren't paying attention to him, before gesturing to his wolf. The beast approached its master, lowering its muzzle.

Screw this. He hated to fight anyone stronger than him...never knowing that mindset led to stagnation.

Drifter scanned the horizon, looking for stragglers, when it occurred to him to make sure Jackal was really dead. He turned around just as the bandit chief was spurring his wolf.

"Not today, mask boy!"

Damn! He rushed at the bandit!

As he did, however, Jackal threw one last bomb behind him, forcing Drifter to dodge; the charge went off, releasing a cloud of smoke, but no combustion. Drifter's mask filtered out toxins, but offered no eye protection. Irritated eyes caused the hunter to stagger and fall back.

Hearing Jackal's taunting, the other hunters converged on Drifter's position.

"You got to be kidding me!" Jeremy shouted in frustration.

"I knew we should have cut his head off," Ragna growled.

"Bah, it can't be helped," Reinhardt muttered. "We can pursue him later-"

"No, let him go," Drifter interrupted. That took everyone by surprise. "He's a man who has nowhere to go...he'll die on his own."

"Ah, of course," Reinhardt observed, "the Wild Corridor! Surely if that doesn't finish him off, Snow's men will!"

Yes, as far as they were concerned, their mission was accomplished. All that remained was to salvage anything that could still be used, and give the bound woman and any other dead villagers they found a proper burial.

Dark work, and grim. A reminder of the horrors of warfare.

Yet Drifter had found himself a worthy team. It was small and rowdy, but as he'd hoped, their individual quality more than made up for the low quantity.

Little did they realize that more trials lay ahead for them...

Soon, after the work was done, they were on their way.

With Jackal's gang dispersed, all they had to worry about for the time being was the goblin activity to the south, and whatever diplomatic gambit Snow was trying to pull off. But the former was being dealt with, and the latter was over their heads.

It was just another day at work for Drifter and his men.


	3. In the Court of Queen Zeal

The kingdom of Zeal was renowned for its magical resources. Here was a land that seemed to be in a perpetual renaissance. Art, music, drama, philosophy, they had it all.

And yet, the beauty of it often hid darkness within the halls of the castle...but also true beauty as well. 

On this particular day, the princess of the realm, Schala, had to meet with her mother on a serious matter of state. She tried not to wring her hands as she approached the double doors that led to the throne room.

Her mother was a...tough woman to go with, having great power AND pride.

The guards bowed to the blue-haired princess as she approached, the doors creaking open for her. She passed through into the throne room, which was lavishly decorated with banners and tapestries. There on the throne sat her mother, Queen Zeal.

The woman sat tall and haughty upon her chair, a dark smirk on her face as she took in her child.

"Good morning, daughter," she said in a calm tone. "I trust you had a good night's sleep?"

"Yes, mother," Schala nodded. "Now, you wished to discuss something?"

"You are fortunate to come of age in peacetime," Zeal explained. "But peace is a fragile thing, and it only takes a moment's foolishness to derail everything."

Was something happening? Schala was silent as Zeal stood and approached her.

"Schala, it is time you entered into my confidence," she said. "We face a hidden threat, one that only our magic can overcome."

"What is it, Mother?" asked Schala. "Who would be so bold as to wish harm upon our people?"

She felt Zeal stroke her hair, trying to soothe her...

...both mentally disregarding the rather...dark rumors about the Queen.

"Darling," Zeal murmured, "what do you recall of the undead from your studies?"

Schala reflected. Lady Hermione had been quite thorough in educating both her and her younger brother Janus, especially defense against dark arts.

Undead...corpses brought to animation, if not always 'sentient', by dark magic...a fell thing at times.

And yet... some undead retained a sense of morality, such as Sir Solaire, the kingdom's greatest warrior.

"Do we face a necromancer?" the princess asked at length.

"We do and we do not," Zeal replied. "A lich."

Even worse. Undead themselves, corrupted by their own dark magic and becoming something nightmarish...and powerful beyond comprehension. 

"And... what of the other kingdoms?" asked Schala. "Do they face the same?"

"We cannot be sure," Zeal said with a shake of her head. "All we know for certain is that we must take care of our own."

A moment of silence, as Schala took this all in...

"...What can we do?"

"Prepare for the worst," Zeal stated simply.

The sound of clanking footsteps caught the attention of both women, who turned to see a man in full armor bending the knee before them.

Solaire himself, always ready to help and serve the leaders of the realm.

"Another glorious day under the Sun, my ladies," he announced respectfully. "Once again, I come to report to thee, my queen."

"And what is there to state, today?" Zeal asked.

"It is with immense relief and some trepidation that the dark corners of the land remain silent," Solaire explained, "but there are murmurs among the people of strange sounds in the night. They seek reassurance."

Always dark sounds at night...but things always needed to be looked into...

"We are pleased with your continued vigilance," Zeal told her champion before addressing Schala. "Daughter, this is a matter that deserves your insight."

Schala blanked. "How so?" She needed to know exactly.

"You care for our people, yes?" Zeal clarified. "How shall we put their minds at ease?"

Ah...a speech, and then hunting for whoever what skulking about at night.

"I shall address the citizens myself," Schala declared. "They deserve to hear an optimistic voice to soothe their fears. And then..."

Zeal nodded, making an encouraging gesture with her hand for her daughter to finish her thought.

"And then... S-Sir Solaire, you shall pick a few good warriors and patrol the land for the source of these disturbances."

It felt surreal to be ordering Solaire around. For the longest time, Schala had seen him as an eccentric uncle. An undead uncle, sure, but still.

But he simply saluted. "It will be done!"

With that, he rose to his feet and marched out with his head held high, singing praises of the Sun. Schala looked to her mother, who while not known for being sentimental, gazed back at her with a different sort of pride.

"You're coming along well, daughter."

Well, time for her to show what she could do.

Word spread that the princess would address the people at the Palace. Citizens from across the land flocked to the city, eager to hear from her, as Schala was beloved, and often trusted more than the queen.

Much to Zeal's annoyance. But what could one do?

Dressed in a resplendent purple gown, Schala stood on the balcony, looking out at the sea of men, women, and children who had turned out to hear her comforting words. There were even those who came from Springfield and Shelbyville, client states to Zeal. It was... exhilarating, in a way.

"People of our kingdom, we have learned of dark doings in the night!" She announced. "It could be nothing, but it could also be something quite dangerous!"

She took a moment to let her words sink in. Those who knew about these occurrences would feel vindicated, and those who did not would now be informed.

"For twenty years, our kingdom has known peace," she continued, "and we must keep watch to maintain that peace. Look around yourselves at everyone and everything you hold dear. It is worth protecting. We shall protect it. We must."

"Peace!" her people cried back, and Schala refrained from telling them what her suspicions were.

"As I speak to you, our own Sir Solaire is assembling the mightiest of our warriors to traverse the land. Please, look to them as your comrades and offer them aid, such that they may aid you."

Another round of applause. She was doing good.

"And remember, citizens of Zeal, Springfield, and Shelbyville," Schala announced, impressing those from the client states for referring to their homelands by name rather than calling them protectorates, "the greatest treasure of any kingdom is its people. Stand strong, and we shall endure!"

A great cheer came up from the crowd as Schala ended her speech, curtsied, and blew a kiss.

Zeal, watching, rolled her eyes at that gesture.

Schala left the balcony in high spirits. She did it, she spoke to the people!

Not as bad as she thought it would be.

Now it was up to Solaire to assemble his team. It was a no-brainer to recruit the court magician, a sorceress by the name of Moira.

Then the top monster hunter, Trevor Belmont.

He took on all sorts of beasties, from goblins to vampires. Zeal's personal assassin was a tricky proposition, but Anton Chigurh was a man worth having on your side.

Especially given his near-freakish levels of endurance. For a man who was NOT undead, to say Anton could be relentless was an understatement.

Shang Tsung the soul stealer learned this the hard way when Anton struck off his head with a cattle-stunning hammer.

And then...a local simpleton by the name of Homer Simpson. 

Originally from the protectorate of Springfield, he'd been a simple soldier in Lord Burns' militia before a clerical error assigned him to elite guard training. In over his head many times over, luck playing a factor in survival.

"Good fortune has brought us together!" Solaire declared as he addressed his recruits, gesticulating dramatically. "Each of you stand for everything that makes our kingdom what it is! Moira, the magic of the realm! Belmont, the courage of its heroes! Chigurh, its determination! And Simpson, the common man, the salt of the earth that keeps the nation strong! As for myself, I am but a simple pilgrim, seeking only the Sun! Apart, we are simply faces in the crowd, but together... we ARE Zeal!"

"So...who do we kill today?" Homer asked dumbly, killing the mood.

"We have yet to meet the enemy," Solaire explained.

"Whatever it is, I'm sure I've killed it before," Trevor remarked. It was hard to faze him ever since he exterminated Dracula, the one-time King of the Night.

"...It will be done," Anton said simply, never one for long chats.

"Shall we dispense with the formalities, o great knight?" asked Moira in a playful tone, only slightly mocking. It went straight over Solaire's head.

"Quite!" he declared. "Onward, into the unknown!"

But it was not quite night yet...yet this meant they could try and find the intruders when they were unaware.

Though he was quite fat, Homer was not entirely out of shape as he kept pace with his fellow adventurers, though he was still bringing up the rear.

Now...where to begin exactly?

Solaire knew from his travels that a lot of suspicious activity had been taking place near the towns around Kajar. That was as good a starting place as any. Maybe they could nip the problem in the bud.

And they must always be on guard. One moment of distraction was all it could take...

"So let me get this straight," Homer said as they traveled, "we don't know what we're going up against, and there's only five of us heading out to find it?"

"Do you doubt your own strength?" asked Trevor, though he understood the fat man's trepidation.

Only a fool or madman knew no fear. The key was how to handle it.

"Oh, it's not that, it's just... shouldn't we at least have a troop or two?"

"The more sons and daughters of Zeal we send out into the countryside, comrádaí," Moira explained, "the quicker our foes will notice us. And besides, the advantage of numbers will not always save you."

"Just ask anyone who ever tried to kill John the Shepherd," Trevor said with a nod. Although Zeal wasn't on the best terms with the Northlands, there was undeniable respect for the Shepherd even among the magical kingdom's most fervent patriots. 

Yes, a small, but strong strike team would be needed for this.

Upon arriving to the area, they began to look for any clues.

Reports of stolen livestock turned out to have merit, as they discovered scattered pig and chicken bones. Homer's eyes glazed over and his mouth watered as he pictured a big plate of spit-roasted chicken. Moira, meanwhile, cast a spell on a set of bones to illuminate the teeth marks of whoever or whatever might have eaten the flesh on them.

"Comrádaí," she called to Trevor, "do these sets of bite marks look familiar?"

The man took the bone and began to scan them...then scowled. "Goblins."

Little sociopathic bastards who only ruined and raped where they went.

Anton nodded, shouldering his hammer. "You can track them, yes?"

"Of course," Trevor replied. "If they are stealing livestock, they must be preparing for a greater raid. That means a cave must be nearby."

"Good show, Sir Belmont," commended Solaire. "Lead on, hunter of monsters."

Goblins were seen as a top-hit among hunters, due to their nasty ways. Trevor was ready to kill them.

He led his comrades through the forest, following the trail of the horrid little creatures until they arrived at a cave. Sure enough, there were signs of a group dwelling within.

"Be on your guards," Trevor warned. "Goblins are weak on their own, but they can overwhelm in large numbers."

All nodded silently. Goblins were not the smartest, but they had some form of low cunning.

Homer gulped as they made their way into the cave. This was most certainly not what he'd expected out of life as an elite guard. For something with such excellent pay, he was no closer to a life of luxury than he was as one of Lord Burns' head-crackers.

This was dangerous work, to be honest, full of death and despair.

Moira, as a woman, knew all too well what sort of fate awaited any maidens unlucky enough to be kidnapped by goblins. This was just one of many reasons why she was grateful to have a rather masculine appearance.

Most goblins wouldn't look too hard for her feminine features.

And those who tried...ended up on her study table for dissection...or vivisection, whichever needed.

Anton was silent as the grave. Though he didn't look it, he could move alarmingly quickly in the dark, such that some wondered if he was a demon.

Up ahead, Trevor stopped in his tracks and held up his hand for the others to halt as well, muttering, "They're close."

Well, they smelled close, that's for sure.

Reaching into one of his pouches, Trevor pulled out a firebomb. It contained water that had been blessed by one of Zeal's oldest and most experienced priests, and would burn any unholy creatures who came into contact with its flames. Waiting for a moment, he tossed the bomb underhand into the darkness before him.

Silence, then noises of confusion...followed by the blast.

Sure enough, they saw small humanoid creatures amid the ensuing blaze, shrieking and running about. They were goblins, all right. And now they were in disarray, making them ripe for an ambush. Trevor nodded to Solaire, who barked, "TO ARMS!"

No further words were needed to begin the attack.

They threw themselves amidst the panicked goblins and proceeded to slaughter them. Moira blasted them with her magic, reducing their bodies to dust, while Anton crushed their heads effortlessly with his hammer and under the heels of his boots.

Solaire was swift with his sword, cleaving them to bits and pieces as he worked.

Trevor, of course, was armed to the teeth with throwing knives, hand axes, and firebombs, but favored his trusty whip, Vampire Killer. He struck with such force he decapitated several goblins with it.

Homer... mostly hid behind his shield, but every now and then he made some effort to hit the horrid little beasts with his axe.

Overall, they were quite the force, and the goblins soon found themselves outmatched.

The survivors retreated further into the caverns, some of them still on fire. Solaire was not ready to leave it at that, and neither was Trevor.

"We must stamp them out, root and branch!" the knight declared.

Those who escaped could easily rebuild. Time to kill them all.

Onward they went, with Moira's magic disintegrating the goblins' various traps, until they cornered the wounded and exhausted creatures.

No mercy or quarter was given. They deserved none.

Right, that was done. Now, what was next?

...

...

The faint sound of sobbing came from behind a wooden door with a crude lock.

Oh right...figures.

Smashing the lock with the hilt of his sword, Solaire carefully opened the door...

And a dark sight greeted him and the others.

Young women, scores of them, shackled, chained, and naked. Some gagged, others in varying stages of pregnancy. There were girls as young as eleven, many of them weak from starvation. It was enough to make even the stoic Anton twitch in horror.

"Quick, we must get them to safety!" Solaire announced.

At once, they started releasing the captives and carrying them back out into the light for Moira to treat with her healing magic. One of the brood prisoners, a girl who couldn't have been much older than Schala, looked into Anton Chigurh's cold eyes as he bridal-carried her.

"Kill me," she pleaded, her voice hoarse. Unaccustomed to people begging him for death rather than life, the assassin did not reply.

He remained silent...should he consent?

Giving it some thought, he set her down and produced a coin from his pocket. On one side, a portrait of Queen Zeal, on the other, a soaring dragon.

"Call it," he said as he flipped the coin, caught it mid-air, and slapped it on the back of his hand.

"W-wha-?"

"Just call it."

"H-heads..."

Anton moved his hand. The dragon on the coin stared back at him.

"You will live to see tomorrow," he told the girl, his voice cold and emotionless.

Oh...how cold.

Wailing, the girl tried to pound her head against the rocks, but her captivity had left her to feeble to raise her head. Anton simply lifted her again and continued to carry her out of the cave.

Such was life, a flip of a coin to him.

The five warriors soon had brought the captives to safety. Homer was in tears as he brought up the last girl, thinking of his own young daughter back home.

...And the other one. What was her name again?

Eh, work must be getting to him again.

Moira wasted no time in healing as many of the girls as she could. A few who were too weak had perished shortly after feeling the warmth of the Sun one more time, and Trevor respectfully closed their eyes and gave them last rites. Anton stood guard, impassive as ever.

Solaire was silent, looking up to the sun as it gave comfort to the wounded.

There was still much to do, but in the meantime they had to bring those lucky survivors back to civilization and warn the locals. Additionally, there was the matter of the girls who were carrying unborn goblins. Moira had decent medical training, but the open forest was hardly the right place to perform this many abortions.

Had to hurry back to her labs for these.

In the end, most of the girls lived, though they had no homes to return to thanks to their kidnappers. Though some were of Zealic origin, most had been stolen from border towns that fell on Panem's territory. Given the harsh conditions of the orphan sanctuaries over there, these girls were in no state to return to their homeland.

It was fortunate, then, that the Sorcerer Supreme of Zeal opened up his temples to these refugees.

A odd, but good man, Strange was. Trusted by many in the city.  
-  
"Goblins!" Zeal hissed as Solaire finished his report, having returned to the throne room. "As if we didn't have enough to worry about. And you say they had captives from Panem."

Zeal had been in diplomatic negotiations with Snow. If there were goblins coming across the border from Panem, that would complicate things.

Little bastards...why come here?

"At your earliest convenience, reassemble your team, return to the countryside, and track down every instance of those pests," she ordered. "Deputize the locals if you must."

"It shall be done," Solaire replied, bowing. As she watched him leave, Zeal reflected on her recent decision to bring Schala into her confidence. The girl needed more experience, and all the pretty speeches in the world wouldn't do that for her. It was time Zeal let her daughter graduate to a higher standard of learning, one beyond studying tomes and memorizing incantations.

Loyal as she was, Lady Hermione was a teacher of children, not leaders; Janus could still benefit from her pedagogy, but Schala deserved something more...

A Maester. And Zeal knew just the one.

And soon...the person in question was brought in.

Maester George Challenger was a hard man to find. In fact, his fellow Maesters had been quite convinced he'd perished at sea on his most recent expedition just days before. Zeal's heralds who had gone to fetch him were quite startled to discover him in the middle of a spirited disagreement with his colleagues at the Oldtown Citadel over human anatomy. The other Maesters were only too glad to see that someone had need of the spirited fellow, who had quite nearly flipped every table in the Citadel over the woefully out-of-date tomes he'd found in one of their libraries.

Really now, he expected such things to be more in date and top of the line, not stagnant and getting nowhere.

And so, he stood before Queen Zeal. Stood, as opposed to knelt. Few people would be so bold, and fortunately Zeal didn't mind this from him.

He was no man to play by the 'rules', but his skills were second to none.

"Maester Challenger, your reputation precedes you," Zeal declared. "Few can say they have accomplished half of what you've done."

"And you would not have called on me unless you had need of the extraordinary," Challenger replied, not a hint of humility in his tone.

In many ways, quite like Zeal...but not quite as bad.

"Have you ever had the honor of teaching royalty, Maester Challenger?" the queen asked, smiling playfully.

"Well, I have given lectures," the big man admitted, "but never to a queen."

"To me...no," Zeal went on. "For my daughter."

Challenger blinked. "Your majesty, I can't say I do all that well with children."

"That's quite all right, Maester. Schala is of age to be participating in politics, you needn't fear for her maturity."

Ah yes, she was practically an adult now. So it should not be too hard.

"Be warned, your highness," Challenger warned. "If you let me teach your heir, there will be no tidy in-home lectures. When I pass on knowledge, I do so without tomes or chalk-and-slate. For me, there is no substitute for the real experience, and I would offer the princess nothing less."

Zeal gave her most enigmatic smile and replied, "That is all I ask, my dear Maester."

Yes...things were changing all right...and she would be ready for it all.

And if she needed to break her darling daughter's spirit in the process, so be it. The kingdom of Zeal had to survive the oncoming "awakening" at all cost.


	4. In the Court of King Snow

Nestor was the quintessential servant: loyal, observant, and capable. He had served in Red Keep for most of his fifty-two years of life, though he kept to himself his memories of the days when they called the city he called home "King's Landing." Although he took a certain amount of pride in his work as butler to royalty, Nestor would never admit the relief he felt when his previous master, the Mad King Aerys II, perished under Jaime Lannister's blade.

Not that his current master would have cared. Coriolanus Snow had little to separate him from his predecessor, except perhaps for a lack of belief in dragons, and a more subtle approach to enforcing his will.

And, well, less prone to screaming loudly about burning people alive. No, he was far more cautious and level-headed.

Most household servants welcomed this, but Nestor remained wary. A calm man was harder to predict than a manic one. The butler chose his words carefully when addressing King Snow, as if one slip of the tongue could separate it from his mouth.

Although lately Snow had been in good spirits, such that one day, he called the butler to his study for a private discussion. Ever punctual, Nestor arrived well before the appointed hour.

Snow was not present yet, perhaps off doing some work of his own. Nestor simply stood and waited, allowing the silence to soothe his mind.

These quiet moments were what helped him through uneasy times. But soon, the sound of footsteps caught his ear. They were slow and plodding, even for a man of Snow's age, meaning he was most likely coming from the toilets. Everyone in Red Keep was well aware of the king's gastrointestinal sensitivities, but wisely kept quiet about it. All had their issues.

In time, the king of Panem came limping into the room, leaning on his cane.

"Nestor, on time as usual, I see," he observed. "Would you kindly show me to my seat, there's a good fellow."

"Very good sir," Nestor replied with practiced grace, taking his liege by the arm and helping him into his chair behind the desk. Snow was not the sort of man who was too feeble to seat himself, far from it. The gesture was simply a means of reinforcing the roles of master and servant.

And of course, some times he would seat himself and do other things as well, just to show people he wasn't getting TOO weak. Keep them on their toes.

"Now then," Snow announced as he settled in, "do sit down, Nestor, you look like you could use a bit of respite."

"Thank you, sir," Nestor replied, his voice pleasantly neutral as he made to sit on a nearby chair. It was time to get to the heart of the matter, whatever it was.

Likely nothing too pleasant, but again, not his place to say.

“Nestor, you’ve been in Red Keep all your life, correct?” Snow inquired.

“Yes, sir,” Nestor confirmed. “My family is dedicated to serving the master of this castle.”

The master of the castle, never saying anyone in specific. But Snow figured that might not be a concern right now. 

“Your memory is keen, then,” Snow inferred. “Tell me, how well do you recall what the common folk refer to as the Black Banquet?”

Now there was a dark subject. Snow was referring to his own post-war banquet, one that had been attended by most of Midteros’ nobility. Some unknown assassin had poisoned the wine, killing all who drank it except Snow himself.

And the only reason Snow did not die was because he had the antidote. Still left some rather nasty sores in his mouth.

"Vividly, sir," Nestor replied. "Such devastation, so many lives snuffed out."

This was no understatement. Houses Tyrell, Martell, Lannister, and Frey had gone extinct that day, their lords and heirs killed by the poisoned wine. A few minor houses went extinct as well, namely the one headed by the bachelor noble Sheev Palpatine, as well as House Toadstool with the deaths of Lady Peach and her paramour, Sir Mario. Other houses had been decimated, such as Baratheon and Arryn.

Nasty, nasty business. The survivors were those who were either not invited, or claimed they had other things to do.

"You would have been privy to the guest list, would you not, Nestor?" asked Snow in an alarmingly casual voice for someone who survived a mass poisoning.

"I was, sir," Nestor agreed. "Those names are seared into my memory."

"Do you recall which noble houses declined their invitations?"

“Well, Zeal was the first to do so,” came the reply.

"And the others?" pressed Snow.

"Eddard Stark was mourning the death of his friend, Robert Baratheon," Nestor reflected. "No one arrived in his stead. Gondor closed itself off as well."

Nestor could understand why: the people of Gondor had been hit the hardest by Aerys Targaryen's attempts at conquest. It felt only natural they'd want to close themselves off to rebuild.

And Snow, deep down, would know it would be impractical and stupid to kill off EVERY house. No, some needed to stand still to help the borders.

"And House Bolton?"

"I believe they were not on the list."

He was right. Roose Bolton was one of the few Northmen Snow respected, and it was in his best interest to keep that man on his good side.

Dangerous, yes, but skilled at his work.

Another uninvited figure was the High Sparrow. Like most inhabitants of Panem, Nestor followed the Faith of the Seven, though the war had done much to rattle his devotion.

Snow made no secret of his contempt for the clergy, but he needed to let that old fool live for appearances’ sake. 

After all, one needed some sort of faith to exist in this dark world. To avoid breaking down.

"You might be wondering why I pose these questions," Snow suggested, "and I would not blame you. Why should I ask a loyal servant, one I see everyday, to relive the single greatest act of terrorism in Midteros? You see, I'm in two minds about how I chose to handle avenging our fallen. On the one hand, it seemed only natural that a lingering Targaryen loyalist faction was at work. However, now that we can all be certain that the so-called dragon princess is but an errant dream, I must be certain that our poisoner has been brought to justice."

Nestor felt his hands start to shake, but clenched them around his knees. Could this be another one of Snow's mind games? It was more or less an open secret around Red Keep and quite likely the other courts that Snow had been the one to poison the wine, but no one dared confront him. Snow had taken Aerys' infrastructure and brought out its full potential, building an unprecedented surveillance and spy network.

But years as being an aide to mad people allowed Nestor to control his face and emotions, always making sure he knew what to say and how.

"Do you seek my insight, sir?" he asked, careful not to use the word "advice." Snow had people for that sort of counsel.

"In a manner of speaking," Snow confirmed, sitting back in his seat. "As a man who knows this castle inside and out, would you suspect that anyone who might have demurred an invitation could have had someone infiltrate the service ranks?"

A pause.

"I cannot think of anyone at the moment, sir...thought the fact Tyrion still lives among his family does speak of something."

"Ah yes, the dwarf," Snow mused. Ever since that fateful day, Tyrion had been more or less a permanent guest at Red Keep. It boggled the mind that Snow would so ruthlessly do away with Tywin and the twins, but spare the black sheep of the family. "He counsels well when sober, but I see your point."

Saying this, Snow proceeded to put on a pair of spectacles and open a ledger on his desk, reading it quietly. He looked up briefly, making eye contact with his stoic butler.

"You may resume your duties," was all he said.

"Thank you, sir," Nestor replied, rising to his feet and bowing before turning to leave.

The tense atmosphere seemed to leave, and Snow sighed. Nestor was hard to make out at times. Loyal to his face, but inside...wasn't sure. Still, good at his job.

"A curious interview," thundered a deep, raspy voice behind him. Most men his age would have jumped in alarm at the intrusion, but Snow just scowled.

"Must you insist on slinking about like a fugitive, Burton?" he grumbled, to which the man, Burton Villers, only chuckled. He was a towering figure, clad in a hooded robe, the cowl of which hid all his face but his bearded chin from view.

A man of unknown origins, and unknown motivations. He did say he was loyal to Snow...and did show it. But how much was real? Difficult to pin down.

"One must always be willing to gauge the intelligence of one's subordinates," Snow remarked, as if in explanation.

"Ah yes, and I suppose you concluded that old Nestor has a keen memory and a sharp sense of social perception, but quite rightly fears expressing himself?" Burton suggested. "Really, you could say that about any of the servants, my liege. You do yourself a disservice."

"Including yourself?" Snow asked.

Burton just smirked.

Snow removed his spectacles, stood up, and muttered, "It's about time we held court for the day. What are our items?"

"The Faith Militant is attempting to assert their influence again," Burton explained as they walked together toward the throne room. "They are threatening to block the next Hunger Games unless you attend to the matter of the unwed couple."

An irritated sigh came from the king as he recalled the incident in question: two young lovers, having eloped in defiance of an arranged marriage, had been caught consummating their unrecognized union by a member of the Sparrows, a fanatical branch of the Faith of the Seven. This had happened less than a week ago, and ever since they'd been demanding that Snow charge the young man with rape.

Snow was not sure if that would be the smart thing to do. All over the world, people likely had sex before marriage, and it was hard to keep track of it all. Right now, in fact, he had bigger fish to fry. He would consider this, but do nothing major until certain.

"We'll give them the usual run-around," he replied. "Anything else?"

"Lady Katniss is at it again," said Burton. There was no need to elaborate; both men were well aware of how the most recent victor of the annual Hunger Games would offer what she thought were subtle signals of rebellion to any common folk within sight of her.

For now, she was a mere pinprick in their side, but making an example of her would upset the populace. She might be part of the regime as Panem's champion, but her humble origins gave people hope. Snuffing out that spark of hope would only disrupt the order of things and bring unnecessary hatred Snow's way.

No, killing her right away would do utterly no good. First, he had to alter the public's view of her.

"Perhaps if we were to bring her mother and sister to live here in the Capitol, she might begin to mind her manners," Snow suggested.

"Ah, political hostages," Burton marveled. "Great minds do think alike."

They soon reached the door to the throne room, beside which lounged a scarred, grey-haired man in lightweight plate mail. Zaeed Massani, legendary mercenary and bounty hunter, now employed as King Snow's personal bodyguard. Somewhat reluctantly, the old warrior stood at attention.

This wasn't the man he wished to work for...but it was also the only life he knew...

The three of them entered the court together, where the attendants present all took the knee.

So many people about, all either blindly loyal or with their own agenda.

Such as Lord Donnel Udina, partriarch of another noble house spared from the Black Banquet. An ambitious man, but also a coward. To Snow, he was a useful idiot.

Drake the penguin, loyal and bold, yet an egomaniac and narcissist. Good muscle, but not much else.

Euphemia "Effie" Trinket, a very proper noblewoman who for many years had curated the Hunger Games. Exceedingly loyal to Snow in light of how horribly his predecessor had treated her House, Effie was a reliable asset.

If a bit slow on the uptake.

And so many others...that Snow did not actually like. But he didn't like anyone...

Oh, there was Delphine beside his throne. He liked her. Such a sweet little girl, that Delphine... as well was Snow's only living relative.

Goblin Slayer was not present...but that was nothing odd. He was out killing Goblins, or keeping himself sharp. 

Snow took his seat and looked out at his court.

"Right, to business."

All went silent and all eyes went to him. Good, he had attention still.

"Anyone who wishes to address the king, step forward," Burton announced.

A moment of silence...

...before Unella, a member of the Sparrows, stepped forward. Before she even opened her mouth to speak, however, Snow pointed to her and said, "Mind the child, my dear."

"Grandfather," Delphine whined.

Well, he wanted to make sure she would remain pure enough in some cases...

Unella cleared her throat and explained, "The Sparrows await your intervention in the matter of the recent abduction."

"And they shall continue to wait," Snow replied. "Good kings do not interfere in matters of religious interpretation. Your case must be stronger than that."

Unella's face twisted into a scowl, but she said nothing and stepped back into the crowd. Donnel Udina was the next to come forward.

"I say we press advances when we can!" he stated. "The others all seem distracted, so we should take them down when we can!"

"If I may borrow a maxim from the High Sparrow," Snow replied, nodding to Unella, "on their own, they may be weak, but together, they can bring down an empire. We must study them, learn their intricacies. Remember the folly of Lord Vega."

Lord General Vega had been one of Aerys II's most brutal generals. He had made the huge strategic mistake of pursuing Eddard Stark's retreating forces into the Northlands in the dead of winter. Finding what few rural villages there were completely evacuated and the fields frozen, most of his men either froze or starved. Vega himself had been picked off by a guerrilla force led by a young John the Shepherd.

So that was a no go. 

"Anyone have any REAL suggestions?" Snow asked.

Very primly, Effie Trinket raised her hand. With a sigh, Snow said, "Make it quick."

To his surprise, she actually had something valuable to say.

"We must bide our time, and reach out to the Houses...so that we may learn how they think and plot."

"Take heed of Lady Trinket, everyone," Snow announced, gesturing to Effie. "This is our priority: Panem is still a young nation. If we are to help it grow old, we must lay a diplomatic groundwork. Petty cultural theater and premature invasions will only undermine what little we have already built."

Mutters of agreements sounded out throughout the hall.

Noticing Katniss in the crowd, Snow gestured to her, calling, "Lady Everdeen, how gracious of you to attend."

It took everything in Katniss' body not to sneer at the king of Panem.

Well, time to play along with this nimrod.

"Yes, your highness," she said with practiced grace as she came forward, bowing her head.

"I understand you have an ill mother and a young sister," Snow explained, his voice calm and deliberate. "As a grandfather myself, I feel it important to open my home to them."

Katniss felt her blood run cold. She managed to keep her composure, but she knew exactly what Snow was doing. He'd caught on to her acts of defiance.

"That is much appreciated...but people heal best when in their own homes," She replied.

"Hmmm, true," Snow admitted. He remained calm. He rather liked to play the game.

What could he dangle over her for leverage? She came from a district that was rich in dragonglass, but lately the mines there had been running short. Operations were becoming increasingly dangerous, and medicine was difficult to come by.

In the Capitol, however...

Such things would be a dime a dozen...and yet, would that still be enough? Hard to tell with her.

"These are uncertain times," Snow told her. "We need the dragonglass mines to keep running, and unfortunately that means supplies must be rationed. Noble as it may be for your family to value their independence, it is not in good public conscience for Panem to allow its icon to lose her loved ones."

Inwardly, Katniss cursed Snow and herself. Without outright lying about his own intentions, he'd turned this situation against her by leaving her in the position of potentially refusing to lift her own loved ones out of poverty.

"So...it's best for everyone if I take up this offer?" She asked.

"Do you not miss your loved ones?" Snow asked, his voice carrying the tone of a concerned father rather than an authoritarian king. 

"Well, yes, but-"

"And I am sure you wish for their good health."

Snow held back the urge to smirk as he watched the color drain from the girl's face. He had her on the ropes.

Now...to draw her in.

"The money you send back to them, there is always a chance it might not get there, yes? Would they not be better served to live here, where they need not want for decent food and shelter?" he asked. Katniss bit her lip. "And as for young Primrose, she would be better served in her aim of becoming a healer if she had access to better teachers, would she not?"

Primrose Everdeen was Katniss' younger sister. Barely thirteen, she was still in the right age range to be taken by the next Reaping. Katniss had taken her place in the last Hunger Games, but who could say whether someone might stack the lottery this time around?

Oh, he played dirty...

"Time's ticking, girl," Drake hissed lewdly.

Setting her jaw, Katniss bowed her head again and said, "Very well. I shall send word-"

"Please, do not bother yourself," Snow interrupted, waving his hand, "we have the message in place already."

A final act of humiliation. This whole thing had been mere political theater, and in all likelihood he was going to do it regardless of what she said.

She sat back down without a word.

"If no one else has any matters to bring to the king's attention-" Burton started to say, when who should come out of the crowd but Tyrion Lannister, already tipsy this early in the day.

Tipsy, but still quite functional. "If I may, my lord."

"Yes, what is it?" sighed Snow.

"Well, rumors are abound of strange supernatural forces..." Tyrion noted. "Such as Demons..."

Gasps and worried murmurs spread throughout the court, much to Snow's annoyance. This was not what he needed right now.

"Only rumors?" he asked in response.

"But they can spread," Tyrion nodded.

"Of course," Snow muttered. "Well then, Tyrion, perhaps a talk with an expert in such things might be worth our while. When you have the chance, send a raven to Dr. Strange."

Panem's relationship with Zeal was thawing lately, thanks in part to the queen's recognition of Snow's claim to power ahead of the other Houses.

But one must be careful, as she was cunning woman, always with her agenda. To let your guard down around her was to invite death.

With that, the Court of King Snow closed for the day.

All filed out, and Snow himself retreated to his chambers.

There was a window overlooking his prize rose garden. Snow made his way over, looking out at the many flowers below. Gardening was one of the few things he trusted no one but himself to do flawlessly. It kept him active, caring for and cultivating roses. He smiled, recalling a moment when he found a mutation that set one of the roses apart from its sisters. Such unique beauty, he knew, deserved to be isolated, fostered, strengthened so that it would endure and live on.

But alas, there was no gardener for the sapient. Every day, children with such promise, such potential were ground down and homogenized. Snow was fortunate; that would not happen to Delphine.

Things must be taken care if his ambitions were to succeed...

And that meant ensuring he locked down the throne for generations to come.

He looked to the horizon, as if scanning for otherworldly threats.

That tramp Zeal was definitely sitting on something important, and by hook or by crook he'd figure it out. He took down the Mad King with little more than his wits and a few honeyed words; his kingdom wouldn't fall so soon.

But Zeal was smarter, and more stable. He could not overlook her.

This was where Goblin Slayer would be vital to his plans. That single-minded warrior was pressing into other territories, cutting a swath through the Corridors, and with it, discovering alternate paths into the neighboring kingdoms. If push came to shove... Snow could launch retaliation attacks on any of them.

Including Zeal. Only if it came to that.


	5. Last of the Lawsons

Few were as simultaneously revered and notorious in Winterfell as Lady Miranda. Her mastery of the arcane and the tools of assassination impressed those trained in the ways of war, while her plunging necklines and form-fitting bodices turned heads of both sexes and earned disapproving glares from grandams.

Some would dismiss her as stupid. This was a mistake. And one that could get someone killed.

Not only did she have a dagger up her sleeve and a collapsible short bow strapped to her leg, but she’d seen to it that every servant girl in the castle had them, too... and could use them proficiently. There was, of course, another skill she’d taught them, one she was also impressing upon the Stark sisters.

“Well, Sansa, still bound to the chair, I see,” Miranda remarked upon re-entering the princess’s room. “You can’t simply rely on young master Faramir to swoop in and rescue you.”

Sansa would have replied if not for the thick knotted cleave gag in her mouth. She just rolled her eyes. Escape artistry wasn’t nearly as romantic as the fairy stories made it out to be.

Though right now, it was not horrifying either. Just annoying.

“If it’s any consolation,” Miranda purred, “your sister isn’t doing much better.”

Indeed, Arya had to be wrestled into her chair in the room down the hall, and all she’d managed to accomplish thus far was to tip it over and chafe her wrists.

Yes, as daughters of the Stark clan, at lot of rogues would like to take them hostage. It was important for them to learn...

“Hnngh, ummph,” Sansa moaned through the gag as she struggled. Miranda walked behind her and placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“You are much too tense, my dear,” she said in a soothing voice. “Relax yourself, feel the contours of the ropes. You will tire yourself otherwise.”

Sansa paused, taking a moment to follow this advice. Sure enough, the ropes seemed to loosen a bit.

Yes, just let it all slide off and out, and everything should be good.

Soon, she was reaching up and untying the ends of her gag. She stretched her jaw as she removed it, coughing a bit.

"Ugh... this never gets any easier, does it?" she asked, rubbing her wrists.

"Which is why practice is key," Miranda reassured her. "Tell me, do you remember where the weakest part of a suit of plate armor is?"  
"The joints?" Sansa guessed.

"Excellent," Miranda praised. "Which one could you reach best with your poniard, if it came to that?"

Forcing back the urge to shudder, Sansa reflected for a moment, picturing herself having to face a potential kidnapper in full plate. She saw the dagger in her hand, its long and tapered blade shining under torchlight. The knight was lunging for her, taking her for a helpless damsel, and as he raised his arm, she saw it...

"The armpit!" she blurted. She lashed out by reflex...and was easily blocked by a satisfied Miranda

"You're well on your way, my lady," she told the girl. This was no small praise; Miranda was a strict teacher, challenging everything the girls thought they knew on a regular basis. Sansa smiled as she rose from her seat.

"Thank you, my lady," she was about to say, but Miranda put a ringed forefinger to the girl's lips.

"Ah, ah, ah, don't you curtsy to me," the dark-haired woman lilted. "You are a princess of Winterfell. I'm a soldier's wife."

Now...how was Arya doing at the moment?

She went to check on the younger Stark girl. Opening the door, Miranda was immediately greeted with a string of furious muffled screams.

Naturally, it was wise to give the girl a thicker gag.

For such a small teenager, Arya was a real handful. She was still lying on the floor, her bonds no closer to being loose, while a heavy black cloth bound over her lips kept a wad of fabric trapped in her mouth. With a sigh, Miranda approached and lay down on her side, supporting her head with one hand, and smirked knowingly at the red-faced adolescent.

"My, my, the little wolf has a bit of trouble, eh?" She said with amusement.

"GRRRMMMM!" Arya howled.

"Yes, yes, I know," Miranda sighed, "you would be like Thane Krios and never get caught in the first place, yes?"

Thane Krios, the master assassin. A member of the lizard-like Drell race, he was an old comrade of John the Shepherd. His abilities had saved Lord Stark's neck on multiple occasions, and true to his word, he'd never been caught.

Mostly because he'd been trained to commit suicide if that happened.

And in any case, he was just too good for anybody to catch.

"Would you like a hint?" Miranda asked, her voice slightly teasing. Really, Arya was a dedicated student, as difficult and bratty as she could be.

"NNNN!" the girl growled, shaking her head as best she could. It seemed she was close to destroying the chair to which she was bound, a rather unconventional choice.

"Ah, well the kidnappers won't be giving hints, so it may be for the best."

That seemed to really pique Arya's rage as she finally splintered the chair, allowing her to awkwardly but vigorously loop her bound hands over her buttocks and legs, bringing them from behind her back to in front of her chest. She then grabbed at the thick gag that smothered her mouth and yanked it off, spitting out the mouth packing that had stifled her tongue.

Having ungagged herself, she proceeded to start pulling at the knot binding her wrists with her teeth. Miranda looked on, never saying a word.

Well...that was one way to do it, right? 

“There, I’m done,” Arya snapped.

“Oh, but are you?” purred Miranda. Her expression then changed from playful to stern. “Breaking the chair alerted your captors to your efforts. They came in, grabbed you, and clapped you in irons before you even had a chance to get that rag off your mouth.”

Harsh words, but she had a point: there was definitely an easier way to escape.

Arya sighed as she stood. “Try again later...”

"That's the spirit," Miranda said as she stood with her. "Though for now you should see to those chafe marks."

Arya grumbled as Miranda left and moved on.

The Lord and Lady of the castle would no doubt be interested in hearing about their daughters's progress with this... unique method of risk management. Neither of them were entirely happy with the arrangement, but Miranda's record spoke for itself.

"Another broken chair," Ned sighed. "Did she at least free herself this time?"

"Inefficiently, but yes, my lord," Miranda replied. "The proper method might take a bit longer to sink in with her."

Ned sighed and nodded. To each their own, but some methods worked better than others.

“Are you quite sure this will help our girls?” Catelyn asked. “You have already done so much to make the domestic servants as reliable as the guards, should that not be protection enough?”

“We always hope to never need these measures,” Miranda said sympathetically, “but if there is a chance that the worst will happen, we must be ready.”

She was speaking from experience. Miranda had once been the heiress of House Lawson, now virtually extinct thanks to the Mad King. Had it not been for her own escape artistry, Miranda would have been sold to one of Littlefinger’s brothels, or worse.

And some people...or things...knew how to slip into places....

Yes, one always had to be ready. It came as good news to the Starks that Sansa was at least making progress. Miranda finished her conversation with them and proceeded to the next part of her agenda: the barracks.

Soldiers were always ready, for who knew what could attack at any day.

As she was approaching, she spotted a guardsman chatting with a tall, rough-faced man wearing a belt of knives.

Harald, better known as "Dirty Harry," Sheriff of the Neck and a son of Skyrim. Though not known for his good humor, he looked pleased to notice Miranda's approach and barked, "Smash the windows, make a noise!"

The young guardsman, who did not know Miranda's character as well as the sheriff did, looked aghast, no doubt thinking the older man had committed a grave act of disrespect by shouting a line from a marching song at a titled lady. But, to his surprise, Miranda smirked and responded with the next line.

"We shall run with dirty boys." 

An odd song, but good humor in dark times was always nice.

Though she was glad to still have camaraderie among the North's army, Miranda hadn't come here to fraternize. No, she had someone else in mind.

John the Shepherd was many things: warrior, tactician, hero, and inspiration. But to Miranda, he was more than that: he was hers. There was nothing they didn't share between themselves... not even their secrets.

She knew the origin of every scar on his body, from the crossbow graze across the bridge of his nose to the welts on his back from his days as a fighting-pit slave in Mariejois. He knew every trauma she'd faced, from losing her mother at an early age to committing her first kill at seventeen in self-defense.

The connection went deeper that most people even knew. But enough of that. Time for the point.

She passed by the chuckling sheriff and dumbfounded recruit, venturing into the barracks with her head held high. It wasn't her first time coming down here, and it wouldn't be the last. This meant she knew that around this time, John would be in the middle of one of his armory inspections.

Old habits died hard to them.

Such as it was, John was examining a few longbows that had seen better days with the help of Winterfell's chief armorer, the renegade turian Garrus Vakarian.

"Funny how inaction rots these things quicker than actual field use," the avian-like humanoid deadpanned as he unstrung one such weapon. The bow itself might be done for, but the string could be reused.

"My friend, this peace is what we all strive for," John chuckled. "If nothing else, they'll make decent kindling."

Warfare was a nasty thing, with only the most cynical saying it was good for progress and weeding out the weak.

Miranda poked her head into the armory, watching her husband at work.

"I'll show myself out," Garrus muttered to his comrade before turning to leave, as he had already spotted Miranda.

"So soon?" John asked.

"Aye...empty out there right now."

John was puzzled until he saw Garrus move aside while walking to make room for someone else: Miranda.

"Hello, hero," she purred, making her way over to him.

"Ah, look who's here," John greeted his wife, putting an arm around her once she was close enough. "Come to play with the boys, have you?"

"Careful, I like to play rough..."

"Oh, don't I know it." 

John cleared a nearby table with a violent sweep of his arm before lifting a giggling Miranda onto it.

"What's going on in there?" asked one of a group of guards who were sitting nearby rolling dice.

"Shepherd and the wife are at it again," the turian explained. The guards exchanged glances before abandoning the game and rushing to the door to listen... all except for one recent recruit, a young man by the name of Cloud.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"What do you think?" teased one of the veteran guardsmen, a grizzled fellow known to his brothers-in-arms as Snake.

A long pause.

"...Oh, I see..."

"Ah, don't worry, you'll get your chance with Tifa."

Within the armory, things were getting steamy.

But hey, in the midst of uncertain times, had to work some off.

Miranda had hiked up her skirt and was pulling at John’s tunic, while he’d lowered his trousers and was opening his wife’s bodice. This was not their first time mixing business with pleasure; when John was captain of the Normandy, they’d had their fair share of trysts in the crow’s nest after hours.

Some of which could still be smelled after some time.

As they were going at it, back outside Cloud reluctantly approached the other guards and asked Snake, "Does this happen often?"

The one-eyed man hissed at him to shut up.

Hmmm...answer was likely yes in that case.

A series of grunts and moans told the eavesdroppers that the two had started going at it in proper. Few men and fewer women would be as mad as to form the beast with two backs in a room full of dangerous weapons, let alone with scores of hormonal young men around.

Best let them do their own thing for now.

Cloud couldn't help but sigh. Old Snake's attempt at reassurance didn't exactly put him at ease; childhood friend or not, Tifa seemed so far away now that she was a royal servant.

But she always made sure to keep in contact with him.

"They're about to nut," muttered another guard, a bearded warrior named Harvey Bullock who grinned like a wolf.

So grizzled, yet so immature at the same time.

Sure enough, a sharp cry from within reported the climax of the couple's moment of passion. The guards quickly backed away from the door to resume their game, not wishing to let their voyeurism go on for too long.

Cloud had since departed. Harvey had no problem helping himself to the younger man's abandoned wager.

Such was how love could find ways in the harshness of life.

John and Miranda lay on the table together, his arm around her in a post-coital embrace as she lay her head on his chest. She looked up at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Harald said hello," she cooed.

"That Nord again?" John deadpanned. "If he's still trying to get a posse together to take on the Pepper gang..."

"Perhaps he just wants to make sure he's stable in this world..."

"Perhaps, but there are more productive ways to do that."

The Pepper gang, a notorious bandit group led by Edgar "Lucky Ned" Pepper. Although he lacked Jackal's intimidating height or K. Rool's demented ruthlessness, Lucky Ned more than made up for it with his intelligence, favoring varied tactics and long-range plans to quick and dirty hit-and-runs against easy targets. He was seldom in the same area for more than a few days, and the Neck was just one of his more recent haunts.

And likely did not want to stick around when the scavengers came...

Dirty Harry took his people's safety as seriously as John did that of the entire Notrthlands, but even the Shepherd had his limits. Throwing together a search party to chase down one gang that may or may not still be in their territory was not within them.

"Shall I talk to him, John?" asked Miranda. John shook his head.

"It's my responsibility, Miri," he sighed. "And on that note, there's something that's been bothering me."

Now it was Miranda's turn to sigh. John was using his "we need to talk" voice.

Hopefully it was not about the whole relationship here.

"I'm worried about you, Miri," John explained. "You've already done so much to keep Winterfell safe, it's time you did the same for yourself."

"John, nothing's wrong with me," Miranda insisted. "I have purpose here, now more than ever."

Keep the children ready for the world when it came to them.

“Miri, you’re overextending,” John muttered. “Teaching self-defense to the Stark girls is one thing, but you should put more trust in the Clever Men.”

Among the many refugees to emigrate from Skyrim to Midteros were the Clever Men, Nord mages and sorcerers who made themselves useful as magicians to the Starks. Miranda’s arrival in Winterfell as a permanent resident had produced mixed reactions from them, as her own magic was almost alien to them in terms of technique and magnitude.

But she did have some of their respect at the very least.

Miranda reflected. She had butted heads with the Clever Men on more than one occasion, and her recent forays into the more obscure arcane arts had been rather draining. Noticing her softening expression, her husband asked, "Do you know what Arya says about you?"

"Should I be worried?" Miranda asked back, only half-serious.

"She wants to impress you."

"...Yeah, figured as much. She's doing well, though."

"That's good to hear. She's a lot like her dad."

Miranda wasn't the only one of John's comrades who trained Arya. She was also learning swordplay from Thane, who made his home in a warm, dry corner of Castle Winterfell's cellar. It was the best he could do to mitigate the effects of his Kepral Disease.

He may not have much longer...but he was determined to keep on going as long as he could.

Miranda reflected on the Clever Men. John was right about one thing: they deserved more credit than the Dark Lady gave them. Perhaps she was overextending herself.

Unless that was what she wanted her foes to think.

“Do you really think I should let go of my arcane research?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” John said diplomatically. “Just don’t go it alone.”

That was rich coming from him; John practically built his career on following his own hunches over standard protocol. Going it alone was what made a warrior out of him. And yet...

Things were about to change, and they would have to adapt to it.

This they both knew. It was second nature to them.


	6. Lucky Ned Pepper

Across the land of Midteros, there were many who had secrets to keep, and Coriolanus Snow was no exception. There was... someone who offered services he wished to retain, and this person refused to accept messages by raven. Annoying, but Snow never bothered to ask. He was lucky to have plenty of unwitting patsies who could deliver the necessary communications on otherwise innocuous diplomatic journeys.

It was one such trip to Highgarden that saw Lady Euphemia Trinket carry one such letter, which she was told to leave in the carriage once she arrived. Knowing Snow's eccentricities, Effie didn't give it much thought. She liked the carriage anyways. Kept her safe from all sorts of nasty weather.

The carriage trundled along a country road, escorted by armed guards to protect the traveling dignitary. Effie didn't usually enjoy traveling, but Highgarden was nice this time of year. Not hot, but not cold. Just about right...if not for the bugs. 

Such is life. Everything was going smoothly... at least until they left Panem's border. Here was the wild zone. Bandits, monsters, and worse dwelled in these places. Usually a large enough contingent of trained warriors was enough to ward off most predators, the keyword being most. There were a few... creative brigands out there, and Effie was about to become acquainted with some. 

It started peacefully...and no one saw it coming... 

The foremost guards, mounted on horseback, rode over a patch of earth that suddenly gave way, plunging them into a pit! Screams of agony, both from the men and their horses, filled the air. A death trap! 

The other guards circled the carriage as it came to a halt. All of them watched the surrounding area for signs of an ambush. They thought they now heard the growling of beasts about the area... 

Sure enough, a pack of ravenous hounds came tearing through the brush, attacking the guards and their horses. And if that wasn't enough, arrows zipped out from the surrounding wilderness and struck several guards as they struggled with the dogs. 

This was a well-thought out ambush, the kind that a lout like Jackal would never be able to conceive, let alone pull off. This was something else entirely. A man who knew how to properly do things, and was not afraid to take risks. 

Any men who hadn't been cut down by arrows or mauled to death by hounds quickly met their end at the hands of the bandits who proceeded to charge their position. The carriage was now unprotected. One of the bandits, a small fellow sitting astride a pony, gestured for the others to turn their attention towards its terrified occupant. 

"No harm shall come to you," the leader spoke, his voice ragged and reedy. He needed her alive to make the plans work...and intact as well. 

Dismounting his horse, the man made his way over to the carriage and opened the door, somewhat mockingly holding out his hand to Effie to help her down. Trembling, the noblewoman reluctantly took it, descending from the carriage. 

Soon, she was sitting sidesaddle behind the gang leader as they rode away from the sordid scene. Effie, in her terror, had held on to a bit of personal luggage, clutching it to her chest for comfort. 

What was going to happen to her? Rob her, rape her, then slit her neck and dump her body in some swamp? 

It was a reasonable assumption, but to her surprise, the leader’s first order of business once they reached their hideout was that no one was to lay a finger on the new “guest.” Not only that, but he also invited her to join him for a pipe-smoke by the fireside. 

“A-and you are?” she managed to stammer out, making the bandit leader turn surprisingly apologetic. 

“How rude of me,” he said with a grin, his whiskers barely concealing a split down the middle of his upper lip. “I go by Lucky Ned Pepper. And yourself?” 

"...Lady Euphemia Trinket." 

Ah, she was honest...that was good and smooth. Lucky Ned made a hissing sound through his front teeth, probably the closest thing he could do to a whistle given his harelip. 

"And coming from Panem, I see," he observed, taking a puff from his pipe. "Noble houses have no want of gold out there, eh?" 

Effie nodded, recalling at that moment the advice she'd been given when she was young about how to behave if taken hostage. Ransoming used to be a military practice for prisoners of war, but the act had fallen into vulgarity once commoners caught wind of it. Now any roughneck with a violent streak and a thirst for coin who could manage to grab someone vaguely important might make some demand for their captive's safe release. 

Just another sign of the dangerous world they lived. 

"You can breathe easy," Lucky Ned reassured her. "I have never killed a woman in my life, and I do not intend to start." 

That was little comfort on its own, but something about Lucky Ned's carefree demeanor and affable tone brought out Effie's more trusting side as she responded, "I occupy an important role in Panem's high society. They would offer a generous ransom for my safe return." 

Sure enough, Lucky Ned's eyes lit up at this admission. He could get something out of this. Maybe even pay for decent food. 

"What price would you expect from them?" he asked. Effie relaxed in thought, letting her satchel touch the ground and open slightly. Lucky Ned's eyes followed this movement out of habit, wondering if there was something of personal value in there he could use as proof his gang had the noblewoman. 

Then he caught sight of the letter's royal seal. Well...a pretty penny, that was for sure. 

Before she could stop him, Lucky Ned grabbed the letter from Effie's satchel and held it up, grinning like a wolf. 

"What have we here?" he remarked, holding the sealed document between his bony index and middle fingers. The wax impression of a cawing magpie, Snow's sigil, stared back at him. Never did like the bastard...but then again, very few people did. 

"Carrying an important letter, eh, Lady Trinket?" the bandit remarked. "Odd. You don't look much like a raven. Suppose you opened it up and read it?" 

Effie's blood ran cold. The affable tone was still present in his voice, but his expression had shifted from gentle to threatening. Even for a shorter man, he still outweighed her considerably, and she knew better than to trust an outlaw's promise when it came to her safety. At the same time, she dreaded what might become of her should Snow learn that she betrayed his trust. 

Whose wrath should she risk, her captor's, or her king's? A conundrum. What could she do here? As Lucky Ned loomed over her, Effie felt fear take hold and accepted the letter from him with a trembling hand. She was still shaking as she broke the seal and opened the letter. 

"Mind you, I know lies when I hear 'em," Lucky Ned mentioned casually, "and I cannot abide deception." 

Of course, he himself knew he could be risking himself. If Snow found out he looked at the letter... he'd be several inches shorter. And a lot less talkative. Putting that out of his mind for the moment, he rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, a visual cue to Effie to hurry it up with reading out loud. 

"J-J-Jona S-Seder-deris," she stammered, but Lucky Ned cut her off.

"Who?!" he yelped, eyes wide. "Say that name again!" 

He knew Jona Sederis more by reputation than by acquaintance. She was one of the Asari, an all-female race of water nymphs possessing incredible magical affinity and natural longevity. However, she was not one of the kinder members of her kind, heading a notorious mercenary group. If this pampered upper-class twit had just spat out the name he thought she did, then this could get interesting. 

"Keep on going, please," He said, "This is important." 

Effie gathered her thoughts and read aloud, “Jona Sederis, our mutual foe in the North has encircled his pack. If we are to proceed with our designs, one of his pups...” 

Here she trailed off, as if what came next was too horrible to consider. But Lucky Ned was insatiable. 

“Out with it, woman.” 

Old Stark may be a problem, but he was man of honor, and Pepper...had to respect that. 

"...One of his pups must be plucked away," she continued, tears in her eyes. Effie knew Snow was ruthless, but this was beyond the pale. It put him into the same territory as the Mad King, who had put her parents to the flame on a demented whim. 

No, this would not do...not do at all. Chaos could occur. 

Lucky Ned, however, looked positively giddy as he snuffed out his pipe, excited at the prospect of using this information to his own benefit. He would have just been happy with ransoming Effie back to her countrymen, but it turned out she came bearing gifts. And he knew how he could work this whole thing out... 

Jona Sederis was leader of a mercenary group called Eclipse. They were known for their mastery of siege techniques war machines. Not only that, but they had excellent infiltration specialists. It wouldn't be too difficult for them to find a way to snatch one of Stark's younglings. 

That is, if they ever got the order to do so. So he had to make sure the order would never come...and this was the time. 

"Quite the shake-up, that," he remarked. "Suppose I held onto it for you." 

Effie looked up, her face a picture of shock and terror. What was she to say if she arrived back in Panem without it?! 

Ned figured this was a situation that SOMEONE was going to lose in...just did not want it to be him. Sure, Stark would just as soon send Pepper to the headsman as Snow if he caught him, but at least one of those men wouldn't elongate the experience by torturing him first. Lucky Ned respected that sense of finality. Lord or bandit, everyone went to the same place in the end. The Great Beyond. That’s what he called it. 

True to Lucky Ned's word, no harm came to Effie during her incarceration with his gang, and they even sent her back into Panem territory on her own two feet once the money came in. But her mind was still in turmoil even as she saw the comforting glow of city torches. The words of the message still rang in her mind, and although neither Lucky Ned nor any of his men could read, something troubled her about leaving it in his hands. Was this all really needed? It could start a war! 

After she was picked up by chartered carriage, Effie took the time to calm herself down and work out how to hide her personal terror at the revelation. Once she was back at the Capitol, she would have to face King Snow and explain what became of the letter. 

She would tell him it must have been forgotten in the carriage. Snow was ruthless, but not stupid... 

...and so, he was also pragmatic. He might know...but look into it his own way. And this, Effie soon found herself in congress with him in his office. He was not alone; that towering adviser of his stood by his side. The sight of Burton Villers never sat well with Effie, for although he looked like a man her own age, he spoke and carried himself like someone out of antiquity. Snow had a neutral expression on his face. Hard to read. Like he wanted. 

Effie smiled politely out of habit. She was about to speak when Snow broke his silence: "I take it the letter was lost." 

"Th-the letter?" Effie stammered, playing dumb. It was her gambit to give the effect of a shaken kidnap victim who was still in shock from her ordeal. 

"Never mind...it can be replaced later...even send it by raven next time." 

"It is comforting that the message sent to your relatives was written in your hand, Lady Trinket," Villers remarked. "Who knows what delicate information could have fallen into the wrong hands if your captors had even the slightest knowledge of literacy." 

"On that note, you must be exhausted from your ordeal," Snow noted, "so for the moment, I suggest you return to your private residence and remain there until further notice." 

Effie tried to hide her relief. Of all the things that could happen to her, she was merely being put under house arrest. Really, there was no place she'd rather be at the moment. She did have one concern, however. 

"May I ask who will oversee the Reaping in my absence?" she asked. 

"Time will tell enough, my lady," Snow assured. "For now...please rest." 

Effie rose and curtsied before heading out. She didn't mind that a pair of armed guards escorted her all the way home; at least she knew they wouldn't do horrible things to her. Snow remained seated as she left before pulling out a bit of parchment and taking up his pen to write a new message. 

"It would seem we avoided a crisis, Villers," he remarked as he scratched out freshly-inked words. "All the same, without the return of that sealed letter, we must assume that someone else might find it. Sederis might not appreciate receiving her new orders by raven, but it cannot be helped." 

"All the same, my lord," Villers muttered, "I would keep an eye on Trinket." 

"Do it quietly," Snow instructed. "A storm is coming, and we must be ready. No good to cause a panic yet." 

A nod was the answer he got and need. 

All in due time...


	7. Education of a Princess

Schala was still processing the news from her mother as she left court for the day. Effective immediately, she was to look to the new Maester in residence as her teacher. This meant no more lessons with Lady Hermione, the kindly and intelligent witch who had been her mentor from childhood. 

Most of what Schala knew of magic, she learned from Hermione. The woman was like a second mother to her. But now, it was time for a new, practical teacher. A man who had something of a temper...but meant well and had a good heart still. 

First, though, she wanted to bid goodbye to her former teacher, as she knew she would be leaving the palace and wasn't sure when she'd see the older woman again. Knowing Challenger, not for a while. 

Schala approached the chamber that had been her classroom for so many years, now a place of learning for her younger brother, Janus. Hermione came out to greet her, though her usual peppy smile looked more bittersweet. 

"Your grace, how good of you to come see me," she murmured, her long and frizzy dark hair sticking out every which way as usual. 

"I...think you know why I'm here..." Schala began softly. 

"Aye...a farewell," Hermione replied. 

“I don’t know why I don’t feel happier to be moving ahead like this,” said Schala. Hermione nodded. 

“That is how it is to grow up, my lady,” she answered, grasping Schala’s hand. “We all know our time must come, but facing it is seldom easy.” 

Especially in these times, where tensions were growing higher by the day. 

Schala looked down, blinking back tears. “When I come back... I’ll visit you...” 

“Oh, child,” Hermione cooed, setting aside formalities as she caressed her former charge’s cheek, “I am not lonely. Please, tend to your own garden. Only in your hands can its knowledge flower.” 

The princess nodded with a small smile. Yes, it was time... 

After one last goodbye hug, she went on her way, waving to Hermione as she left. Schala knew Maester Challenger by reputation; he was a far cry from common assumptions about Maesters. Supposedly, he’d even sold his gold chain to finance his famous journey to the prehistoric island, and was quite successful there! Came back with some samples. 

The Faith of the Seven lost a ton of followers in Zeal that day. Schala made her way to the harbor, her long blue hair catching the breeze. People of all species were all about, trying to make sure everything was in order. Now, where was Challenger's ship...? 

Knowing him, likely something big and loud. Sure enough, a massive galley loomed ahead, ostentatiously adorned with some of the lesser artifacts the controversial Maester had collected on his many journeys. Well, there was the ship, but where was its master? 

Who knew how the man worked. Always seemed random in his mindset. Schala boarded the ship with her luggage, kept light per her mother’s directions, and approached a pair of sailors. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she greeted them, and they turned to look at her. 

“Your highness!” exclaimed one of them, a lanky, bearded fellow by the name of Lenny, as he jumped to his feet. 

“You’re here early!” said Carl, his companion, a swarthy man with a potbelly as he too stood to greet the princess. 

“Has anyone seen Challenger around here?” Schala looked around. 

“He stepped off to go haggle some extra supplies,” Lenny explained. “And believe me, we’ll be needing ‘em.” 

So...this would be a long voyage...well, likely for the best. The princess busied herself with putting away her belongings and making conversation with the two sailors. They, like Homer, had been members of Lord Burns’ militia previously, and had plenty of amusing stories to tell about him. Amusing, yet odd at the same time. Like firing a commanding officer from a cannon. 

It was a wonder he ever ended up in the elite guard to begin with, but it seemed Solaire was dealing with him capably enough. Just then, Schala felt the boat bob in place, as if something heavy had just come aboard. She turned to look... 

At first, she wasn’t sure if she was looking at a man or a bear. The newcomer towered over everyone, his face framed by a long black beard that made him look like one of the gods of doomed Sarnath. His frame was like that of an ogre, muscular and imposing even in the Maester’s robes that covered it. 

"Ah, so the princess has finally arrived!" He boomed, giving her a heavy pat on her shoulder. "Took you long enough!" 

Schala gave what she hoped was a polite smile and considered telling him that she came at least half an hour early, but thought better of it and simply nodded. Paying no mind, Challenger proceeded to lug his additional purchases aboard and distribute them to any and all nearby sailors who had free hands. 

"Right then, lads!" he thundered. "Best behavior, we're taking the crown princess on a field trip!" 

Everyone rushed about. Never a good idea to keep the man waiting too long. He walked along the length of the ship, barking orders. Schala couldn't help but think that he looked more like a pirate king than a scholar; indeed, Challenger didn't seem to possess the Maester chain at all. She wondered how a man like him even got it! 

Soon, they were casting off, and Challenger disengaged from pushing the sailors around to attending to his new pupil. 

"Have you ever been to sea before, young lady?" he asked, voice still booming. 

"Er, not really," Schala muttered weakly. 

"Splendid!" Challenger cried, interrupting the princess. "Then you shall see our oncoming specimens with fresh eyes!" 

Schala stifled a whimper as the Maester proceeded to grab a pail of fish guts and fling the contents into the water. Chumming the sea already? What was he thinking?! Trying to attract sea serpents? 

Yes, that was his plan! 

Sure enough, the waters began to churn as something moved beneath the surface, rocking the boat. 

"Watch and learn, lass," Challenger said. "You are about to see one of the lesser beasts of the ocean: the Sea King!" 

Sea Kings were powerful sea serpents that were simple-minded predators on their own, but when called upon by the legendary Mermaid Princess, they acted as one. Were it not for her pacifism, she could easily overrun every seaside kingdom in the world.

And this was just a ‘small’ one! It reared up out of the sea, its broad and snakelike head rearing back. But it didn't strike. To Schala's amazement, Challenger reached out his hand with his index finger extended and moved it to the left. The Sea King's head followed his movement. He moved it forward, and the beast pulled back. Everywhere he pointed, the sea serpent followed. 

Schala produced a journal and pencil, with which she began scribbling down notes on the creature's anatomy. How was he doing this as well? Some sort of lost technique he found? She noticed his stance: straight back, head on a string, direct eye contact with the Sea King, squared shoulders. Apparently whatever he was doing required a firm, confident disposition. Was he trying to tell her something about her timidity and lack of experience? 

But then it was all over, and the serpent went back into the sea, disappearing into the darkness. Realizing Challenger was already looking at her, Schala began to stammer out a question about what she'd seen: "How did... h-how-" 

"How did I prevent the Sea King from making a meal of the lot of us?" Challenger offered. 

"Yes..." 

"Ah...a little something you will learn on the way," Came the odd reply. 

Schala nodded, though still a bit confused. How could a regular man without magical affinity or merfolk blood control such a beast? Could this be done with larger, stronger Sea Kings? All she knew about these creatures were what she'd read in Hermione's books, and none of those said anything about what she'd just seen. Just how much had he seen? 

"Right, let us continue our journey before fouler things rise from the deep!" 

Even as he said this, the ship was sailing into deeper waters, where the monsters were likely to become even more dangerous. Mother wasn't kidding, Schala thought to herself. Maester Challenger really didn't settle for lectures and tomes. 

As they sailed deeper, another ship appeared on the horizon. Something about the ship...it flew no kingdom flags she knew. It also had a... peculiar figurehead. A lion's head with a spiky mane. Yet it was not moving with hostile intent. In fact, did not look like it noticed them yet. 

As they drew closer, Schala recognized the ship! It was the Thousand Sunny, the vessel of the legendary Straw Hat Pirates! But before Schala could say a word, Challenger boomed, "HEAD FOR THAT SHIP! THEY ARE FRIENDS!" 

Well, at least that was good news. Yet when she thought about it, Challenger being friends with the likes of the Straw Hats made perfect sense. After all, who but a Maester who didn't care for the trappings of his office would feel comfortable among such eccentrics? 

Schala let her mind drift, recalling the day she met them. It was last year, in fact...or two years ago? How had they changed since then?

She vividly remembered Nami and Robin, two beautiful and clever women who had been so kind to her. Sanji the cook and Roronoa Zoro, two men of opposing temperaments but equally boundless courage. Tony Tony Chopper, the impressionable doctor who couldn't hide his happiness over being flattered no matter how much he insisted otherwise. Franky, the flamboyant half-golem craftsman whose antics could diffuse any situation. Usopp, self-proclaimed brave warrior of the sea, spinner of tall tales, and excellent sniper. Brook, the skeletal musician and practical joker. Jinbei, the steadfast helmsman. Carrot, the lookout who was so impressionable that she looked to Chopper as a big brother figure. 

And of course, there was the man who led them all: Monkey D. Luffy, the rubber-man, the defeater of gods and devourer of beasts. To know him was to either love or fear him, and there were few in Midteros who did not know his name. Famous across the seas, known for power and courage, and many sorts of exploits in foreign lands. 

Soon the Thousand Sunny was drifting their way, and shouts of joy and excitement were coming from the pirate vessel. A few colorful individuals were waving to Challenger's exploration ship from the deck. Schala had to wonder, did they get more? 

She spotted Sanji, who stood on the deck arm-in-arm with an auburn-haired young woman who appeared to have a third eye in the middle of her forehead. This was certainly new. When she first met the blond cook, he seemed to go crazy over any pretty face he saw. And at least two other women were on board as well... 

One of them was a slender young woman with fiery orange hair, whose brown eyes lit up when she caught sight of Schala. This was Nami, the ship’s navigator who had been like the older sister Schala never had. Seated nearby and casually reading a book was a curvaceous brunette whose bosom made even Queen Zeal look like a little girl by comparison. Nico Robin, archaeologist extraordinaire and rumored one-time lover of Maester Challenger. And no new additions other than the three-eyed one? 

Wait... someone was emerging from the women’s quarters... and a cry came up from Challenger’s crew when they saw who it was! This woman easily towered over Robin’s six-feet-two-inches, and her long black hair shined like raven feathers. Her pale skin and angelic face were enough to drive the sailors into a tizzy. Lenny looked as though he’d been turned to stone! 

Schala wracked her brain, certain this newcomer was some sort of famous pirate, but names escaped her. And so did a smaller woman, with blue hair like hers. There was something definitely regal about the two of them... but before she could ruminate further, who should come leaping aboard Challenger's ship but Monkey D. Luffy himself! 

How did he make it so easy? It was crazy! 

“Challenge-man! And Schala!” the pirate greeted the Maester and princess, pulling them both into a bear hug. 

“You reek of marijuana!” Challenger growled in near-protest, trying to pry the young man off him. But...it was good to see the lad, nonetheless. 

The ships moored up together, and everyone started getting acquainted and reacquainted. Schala felt herself drawn to the newcomers in particular. They did have royalty within them, and while she was no snob and kind woman to all...she found nice to talk to others who were not too snobby. The blue-haired newcomer perked up as she saw Schala approach. 

“Ah, you must be Schala!” she exclaimed. “Everyone has told me so much about you. My name is Vivi.” 

“Charmed,” Schala replied, curtsying. The name sounded familiar, but before she could inquire further, Schala felt Nami’s arms around her, pulling the princess into another big hug.   
“I missed you so much!” squealed the busty navigator. A lot of hugs today, but Schala was quite fine with that. 

The tall and pale beauty seemed a bit aloof, regarding Schala with the patience of someone who isn't sure whether to caress a needy pup or shoo it away. Somehow, Schala sensed the dignity of the serpent coming from her. It was quite overwhelming... 

...and maybe slightly annoying as well. 

"I am known as Boa Hancock," she said while flipping her hair. Despite the apparent haughtiness of the gesture, Schala sensed it was for show.

Sanji and his apparent paramour approached next. While the cook looked pleased as ever, his reaction to Schala's presence seemed a bit more... reserved. 

"Always a joy to be in your presence, your grace," he said with a bow. "May I introduce you? This is my wife, Pudding." 

The three-eyed woman, Pudding, did a little bob as she beamed at Schala. 

"My Sanji cannot help but sing your praises when he speaks of you," she said effervescently as she and Schala shook hands. The princess couldn't help but notice how Pudding's eyes seemed to glint with an air of menace as she said "my Sanji." 

Hmmm...best be careful, but polite, around her. 

"Pleasure to meet you." 

Challenger came up, avoiding questions from Chopper about his salt intake. 

"Well, now that we've come together, perhaps we should detail our mission!" 

"We?" Luffy asked, bewildered. 

"I meant my crew," Challenger grumbled. Turning his attention back to the group, he announced, "We are here on an expedition to observe the beasts of the deep! Our mutual friend Schala has set out to see the world under my tutelage." 

Schala once again looked over to the sea. What odd beings DID dwell in the fathoms below? Likely odd and nightmarish things. As if to ease the tension, Robin spoke up in her dainty voice: “Quite a bold lesson plan, Maester. One would hope your pupil wouldn’t get gobbled up by a sea monster, or abducted by seafaring slaver gangs.” 

To hear her put it that way would upset most people, especially Usopp and Chopper, who voiced their objections. But Schala found it oddly comforting. 

“Bah! Stuff and nonsense,” Challenger scoffed. “These are the tamest waters I know around Zeal.” 

As he said this, however, something bubbled below the surface... 

"Then again," Challenger said causally as he noticed. "Krakens could live around here every now and then." 

“He said that so calmly,” Usopp muttered. 

“I’ve fought a kraken before!” Luffy laughed. “He’s my friend now!” 

But this creature was nothing like the one Luffy had liberated from slavery to the fishman supremacist Hody Jones. It was far more bestial. Feral and savage, it lived only to eat and kill...and morsels were all over these ships. 

“Yeah... that’s no friend of ours,” Zoro remarked, pushing one of his katanas from its sheath with his thumb. 

“Pudding, stay behind me,” Sanji advised his wife, making her coo in adoration. Schala found it sweet that the cook had found a girl who was head over heels for him. Franky and Jinbe stood by as well, fists at the ready. Vivi and Hancock stood side by side as the massive tentacles reared from the sea, water washing down by the rainfall. A terrible bellow filled the air. 

“Alright, time to fight!” Luffy declared, winding up his arm. 

“Try not to bludgeon it too much,” Challenger warned, hefting a harpoon. “You can manage that, right?” 

“No promises!” chirped Carrot. 

Would make an excellent specimen to dissect and study, if killed clean enough. The beast came rising out of the waves, tentacles ready to strike, but Zoro was quicker with his three swords, cutting off the mighty limbs before they could do any sort of damage.

There were more where those came from, of course. Back on Challenger’s ship, his crew was loading a massive ballista under the watch of his first mate, Ser John Roxton. A master sharpshooter and gentleman adventurer, Roxton was notorious for his love of danger. And this was proper danger right here! He loved it! 

"Right, lads!" he bellowed over the din. "Leave the rest to me!" 

He grasped the stock of the ballista, taking aim as the Straw Hats continued fending off the kraken. Zoro was continuing to slash away at it, while Sanji kicked away its regenerating tentacles, determined to keep it away from his wife and his lady friends. Nami was preparing to summon Zeus, her magical storm cloud companion. Franky used the many armaments built into his body to both attack and defend. Luffy pummeled the kraken's head with rapid-fire blows, despite Challenger's protests. Challenger himself stabbed at the thing where he could, more so to collect body tissue and blood samples than anything else. Hancock's legs had some serious power to them as well, effortlessly repelling all blows. 

"EAT THIS!" Usopp roared as he shot a massive plant-like missile from his giant slingshot at the kraken. "NOT US!" 

Chopper was effortlessly shifting between his battle forms, wrestling the kraken away from attacking Challenger's crew. Carrot, meanwhile, charged up her electro as she looked for an opening. The beast reared up more, showing the fanged maw underneath. 

“That’s a beauty,” Roxton grinned, looking down the sights. He just needed the thing to be distracted... and as if to give him the perfect opportunity, Carrot and Nami struck a decisive shocking double-whammy. 

First, Carrot leaped in and punched the kraken with her electro-charged glove, sending a powerful pulse through its body. Then, Nami’s pet summon Zeus took form above the stunned beast and let out a blast of lightning. 

The kraken was vulnerable... giving Roxton the perfect shot. Right into the oversized gullet of the monster! 

Roxton pulled the trigger, launching the ballista's payload. The missile flew true, straight into the kraken's maw and into its heart, puncturing the organ clean through. Challenger still had his harpoon lodged in one of the kraken's tentacles, and the thing lifted him into the air in its death throes! 

The Maester's body weight caused his weapon to break free from the tentacle, and he went plummeting... but Robin saw this, stood from her seat, and proceeded to summon her technique Cien Fleur: Wing. At once, several copies of her arms erupted from her back in the shape of massive wings, and she launched herself into the air, catching Challenger in mid-fall around the waist before fluttering back to the ship deck with him. 

All this in a matter of seconds. Such was the power of the Flower-Flower Fruit. 

The Kraken thrashed about, but eventually began to slow as the life began to leave it...then it slumped into the water. 

It was no longer part of the living. 

All was quiet, but for the choppy waters, until Challenger broke the silence with a boisterous, "Jolly good!" 

Another fight done well by the combined might of the crews! They tied what was left of the carcass between the two ships and went on their way, sailing for the nearest populated island. Along the way, Challenger showed Schala a few up-close and personal details of the kraken's anatomy, some of which he'd collected during the battle. 

"Quite the experience," she said as politely as she could, trying not to gag from the stench of the inky discharge that covered her teacher's robes. 

"Ha! You've hardly been spoiled," Challenger gloated. "Once we venture deeper, you'll see beasties that make this chunk of flesh look like a guppy!"

That...was a bit unpleasant to think on...but it was for the best. 

...Right? 

For the moment, she looked out at the sea and sighed. When she was a young girl, the sight of the waters always felt so comforting. But now that she'd caught a glimpse of the creatures that dwelt beneath the ocean's calm surface, Schala knew for certain that her childhood was over. The sea was home to many such creatures...and worse. In addition, what strange lands lay ahead. 

And yet, it felt liberating... the days of being closely watched by matrons and bodyguards were behind her. Challenger, for all his eccentricities, seemed to be urging her to take initiative. That or he was reckless, but Schala did understand the necessity of thinking on one's feet. 

Well...time to see what the future held...


	8. An Unlikely Meeting

Drifter and his team had ventured into the Wild Corridor to track Jackal's escape. This was less about actually capturing him and more about scouting possible border security risks. If someone like Jackal could get into Gondor's lands and wreak havoc, so could an invading army.

"This sucks on ice!" Jeremy grumbled as they rode along on yet another uneventful day. "You'd think a place called the Wild Corridor would be scarier than this!"

Drifter did not reply verbally. Instead, he looked over his team to get a good look at them all again.

Jeremy, the youngest and swiftest of the group, rode a similarly energetic pony and carried a mace into battle. His red padded armor was ideal for his fluid movement, though it didn't lend itself to long, drawn-out fights. Ragna was a swordsman, riding a fierce stallion and armed with a crimson greatsword as long as he was tall. It was custom-built to transform into a scythe, and despite his wiry frame, he wielded it as easily as a dagger. Rounding out Drifter's companions was Ser Reinhardt, a legendary knight of Gondor who was decades older than any of them. He rode a massive brown bear and brandished a great warhammer that made Ragna's scythe-sword look like a butter knife. All good men, and Drifter knew they would do well...better than he could, with his...

Best not think on it.

"He's right about one thing," Ragna muttered. "It's way too quiet out here."

"Be careful what you wish for," warned Reinhardt. "There is always a chance we might run afoul of someone far worse than Jackal!"

"Tch, like who?" scoffed Jeremy.

"Van Pelt, for one."

A hitman who fancied himself a hunter. Specifically, a hunter of the most dangerous game...that being sentient beings like them. An expert archer, his skill with a longbow was nothing to sneeze at, even for a cocksure young man like Jeremy.

"Y-you don't really mean that, do you?" he mumbled.

"One can never be too sure," Ragna chuckled, allowing himself a wry smirk.

"Keep calm...he likes to keep to the forests and jungles..." Drifter said simply.

"Ah, forests...a mysterious biome," Reinhardt noted, "And one is said to hold the resting place of the legendary wolves, Zamazenta and Zacian."

Drifter, sitting astride his own pony, peered ahead at the way before him. There was something in their way... something loud. Already he could hear the sounds of combat: clashing weapons, battle cries, clanking armor.

"Weapons ready," he called to his men. They didn't need to be told twice. Going into a fight unprepared was a good way to get killed.

As they drew closer, they saw that one of the parties involved wore armor with Panem insignia on them. The other combatants...

"Alright, goblins!" Jeremy shouted, glad to finally have something to kill. So the little shits were here as well. Good. Time to make sure they all still had the skills at hand.

And so, weapons drawn, they charged into the fray, helping their neighbors. Jeremy darted around, pulling off agile stunts with his swift pony as he bashed in goblin heads. Ragna used his sheer strength to decimate some of the hardier beasties. The massive warhammer of Reinhardt was more than enough to smash Goblins or send them flying. Drifter, armed with his weapons, made short work of his section without breaking a sweat.

Every blow that landed rendered another goblin a bloody mess, until at last one of the Panemian warriors stood tall and shouted, "IT IS DONE!"

Whoa...faster than one could even think.

All looked towards the one who spoke. He wore armor that didn't quite look like a Panemian design, his helmet completely obscuring his face. In one hand, he held a simple arming sword, goblin viscera still clinging to its stained blade. This man was known to many people...simply called Goblin Slayer, a man who was dedicated to eradicating the Goblins. Drifter and his men recongregated, themselves splattered with goblin blood.

“Hail!” Drifter greeted Goblin Slayer, extending his empty hand as a sign of respect. Goblin Slayer wordlessly took Drifter’s hand and gave it a firm shake. Nothing quite like that. A sign of respect itself.

“You fight well,” said Goblin Slayer.

“Think that’s something, you should’ve seen what I did to Blutarch’s guys,” Jeremy bragged, flexing his bicep. This earned him a shoulder punch and a stern glare from Ragna. No time for this crap. Had to track down the quarry soon...

"You came into the Corridor for good reason, I take it," Goblin Slayer suggested. There was no questioning lilt to his statement, but Reinhardt took it upon himself to answer anyway.

"Ja, we are tracking a certain raider by the name of Jackal," he boomed. "Perhaps you might have encountered him?"

“The man on the wolves?” One soldier responded. “Sightings say he passed through here...”

"Then chances are he dodged the goblins," Drifter surmised. "We might still be able to pick up his trail."

Always follow the tracks in this case...

...assuming the tracks were still there.

"Before you go," Goblin Hunter spoke up, "there is something you must see."  
  
He led them toward a valley. Drifter was at once amazed and confused by what he saw down there: it was completely barren. No vegetation grew in those depths, and what few trees were there had died ages ago. Following the Slayer's pointing hand, he then noticed that the local wildlife stayed above a certain elevation.

"A wasteland," Reinhardt observed. "But... how did this happen?"

"Difficult to say...though some say monsters of powerful magic..." One soldier replied.

"You and your men would do well to take the mountain path," Goblin Slayer added. "If your quarry lives, he would have to have done the same."

"Well, duh," Ragna muttered. "Jackal's a coward of the highest order. Only picks on the weaker, in fact."

"Traveling through the mountains presents its own set of dangers," another soldier warned. "We encountered Direbears ourselves."

Big bears, and meaner too. Able to easily rip people apart in seconds. A nasty thought.

"Well, the bigger they are... you know the rest," Jeremy chuckled. Goblin Slayer didn't acknowledge that. Too serious and uptight. Or maybe just lacking in causal clues.

"Is there anything else we should know?" asked Drifter, wondering where Goblin Slayer was looking under his visor.

...

"Nothing of note," He said at last.

“Why the hesitation?” Ragna muttered, eyes narrowed.

“Do you doubt the strength of your comrades?” asked Packie McCreary, one of Goblin Slayer’s companions.

"No, but he seems to be hiding something..." Drifter noted.

"We are from rival nations," Goblin Slayer replied. "I won't raise my hand against you, nor will I guarantee your safe passage. Go in peace, friends of Aragorn."

Drifter looked ahead, seeing the vast wilderness...

...full of unseen dangers. No use cursing fate. They had a fugitive to capture. The path was long and silent, with no end in sight.

Before they could set out, however, there came a shrill cry in the distance. Apparently, the goblin camp had reinforcements on the way. There was still a battle to fight here! Of course they were more! ALWAYS more!

Goblin Slayer and Drifter exchanged nods before turning to bark orders at their followers, knowing their best option for fighting goblins out in the open was to surround them. No hiding spaces...for either party. Both good and bad.

Off they went to spring their counter-ambush, watching for the goblins to come rushing in. While smallfolk thought of the likes of Goblin Slayer and the four "Gondor Gallants" as supermen, they were still mortal. It wasn't merely raw power that carried them to victory; facing a goblin horde head on with their numbers would have been suicide. No, needed to think first, bait the shits along...then kill. Thus, they melted into the foliage, waiting for the right moment. Sure, they were from opposing nations, but no one wanted a goblin incursion.

And Goblins hated them, and were hated by everyone. Sure enough, the additional goblins came charging out into the open, but found only their slaughtered brethren lying around. That moment of confusion was all the adventurers needed. They charged from their hiding places, catching the goblins unawares! Blood ran down to the ground by the splashes as more of the unholy monsters were slain. No Goblin was to be spared.

Packie was an incredibly efficient killer, picking off goblins with his compound bow at all ranges. He was one of Lord Niko Bellic's men, themselves fearsome warriors with pasts as checkered as their master's. Bellic had "loaned" Packie's services to Goblin Slayer for the current campaign. A bit of work to do that, but WAY worth it.

While he was incredibly precise, however, the likes of Reinhardt and Ragna had to strike with great care, lest they commit friendly fire. That tended to be the case with the sorts of weapons they used. Theirs were very large and sweeping weapons, designed to clear out large numbers of foes in single attacks.

Drifter and Jeremy both had the advantage of agility, and they once again darted around to great effect, killing with the same efficiency as Packie. And Drifter had long-range weapons as well, and he was picking them off and-

He stopped, just for a moment, as he felt something come over him, hiding it from the others. A sharp pain ran through his body, forcing him to cough violently. He stepped behind a tree for a moment of privacy, pulling away his mask and coughing into his open hand. Pulling it away, he was not surprised to see his palm covered in blood... his own blood.

The others were too busy fighting to notice. Good. He liked it that way. They didn't need to know. Not with the burdens they already carried. Although he knew they'd never tell him outright, Drifter understood they had their own troubles.

Jeremy, once employed by one of the feuding Mann brothers, would likely be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life due to all the pain and misery their fraternal spats induced in Gondor. Reinhardt would wake screaming every now and then from some dark dream or another. Even the dour Ragna had his moments of unrest.

Drifter never asked them exactly what happened. If they wished to share their pain, he would listen. His pain...he still looked every now and then for something that could cure it.

Nothing showed.

Drifter had no idea how much time he had left; some days, he felt fine, but others, he was inches from death’s door. One thing was certain: he had to carry on. Feh...back to the fight.

The throng of goblins had thinned considerably, with no more reinforcements pouring into the area. It seemed they were nearly exterminated in this part of the region. Goblin Slayer stood tall as always, steadfast as he swung his blade. Vermin. Had to be wiped out for the crimes they had done...

Every rule of chivalrous combat went out the window in these cases. They were little more than wild animals with crude weapons, and would be treated as such. Reinhardt roared as he swung his mighty hammer, his face twisted with hatred behind his helm. He felt as though he was fighting the undead again, every crush and splatter an act of retribution for... an old friend... a mentor. Oy...bad memories.

Ragna himself had issues of his past, and took it all out on his foes.

And Jeremy? This was the one thing he was good at doing besides street sport.

Soon, all the vermin had been crushed as well...

"Alright, that's how we do it in Gondor!" Jeremy crowed, flexing his bicep. No time to fool around. Had to press on.

"Now we must depart," said Goblin Slayer, his tone carrying the same gravitas as a market-goer shopping for fresh food. Wow....guy had NO social skills whatsoever.

But he had a point. They had to press forwards.

And forward the Gondor Gallants went, right up the mountain path. It was a treacherous climb: steep slopes, thin air, hard ground, and that was the good part. Place could be a haven for wyverns, always ready for an easy meal. Wyverns were no joke. Even Jeremy didn't overestimate his abilities when entertaining the thought of such a fight. Wild compared to dragons, yes, but still deadly in their own right.

Goblin Slayer wasn't kidding about the Direbears. They turned out nearly an hour into the group's ascent, putting them on the defensive. Bears....except bigger and nastier, able to pulp a man in one blow. Only Reinhardt had the raw strength to take them head-on, so the four used zoning tactics to trick the gigantic ursines into falling to their deaths. Like the goblins before them, the Direbears didn't warrant honorable combat. This was an us-or-them situation. As was the case with wild animals. Hopefully the dead bodies would draw predators away from the team.

Higher, ever higher they climbed, until they reached an overlook. They could see miles of the untamed region from there. Unfortunately, this was also where Jackal's trail went cold. Perfect...

Well, at least the view was good, and could scope out any territory. This far out in the boondocks, you had to take any opportunity you could to gain an advantage. The same held true for domestic matters, especially in times of unease. Such logistical intel would be invaluable for the rising nation of Gondor, which had grown beyond the boundaries of a mere city-state.

A lot of wilderness now...

Of particular interest was a vast forest in the direction of the Panemian border. While they were in no condition to go exploring that at the moment, it was useful knowledge nonetheless. Jeremy in particular flinched as he recalled their earlier conversation about Van Pelt's preferred "hunting grounds." Likely filled with the most dangerous animals known...and then some.

No, had to go elsewhere.

Well... Jackal might have disappeared into the ether, but at least he wasn't Gondor's problem anymore. Someday he would pay for his crimes. But for the time being, the Gondor Gallants had to wrap up their scouting mission. To make sure where people could hold camp for war missions...

One would hope they’d never need this knowledge, but they weren’t putting a standing army together for their own amusement. No. Bad things were coming, and they had to be ready for anything.

Gondor had come too far to already fall.


	9. Dignity in Death

For a man like Ned Stark, taking a leadership role meant accepting that some decisions could only have bad outcomes. Nothing was less evident to this than execution duty, for not only was he Steward of the Northlands, he was also commander in chief of its standing military.

That included the Night Watch. An organization made to keep the realm safe from the creatures of beyond...no matter how distant such things were...

...though it had fallen from grace. Some would call it a penal colony....

There were still a few volunteers here and there, and they ran the gamut from naive would-be heroes with heads full of folk tales and fairy stories to desperate men who had nowhere else to go. A down-and-out blacksmith by the name of Jerry fell into this latter subcategory, and he was the man who would grace the chopping block this day due to the abandoning of his post...a crime against the Watch. Sure, sometimes some would leave, but more often than not, they would return to the post before too long passed.

Up there, desertion was a serious crime. Failure to spot danger and warn the rest of the Watch was an existential risk against the entire country. Even a false alarm was preferable to a sneak attack.

On this dreary morning, Jerry sat in his cell, awaiting his lord's arrival, his only company a new young watchman assigned to guard him.

"What's yours, son?" he asked the boy, his voice hoarse.

"Richard Grayson, ward of House Wayne," the youth replied politely, only for a raspy chuckle to come from the condemned man on the other side of the bars.

"I mean what's your reason for being here?" he clarified. "Got too friendly with a tavern wench? Helped yourself one time too many to Daddy's coffers?"

"Nah...just got a little snappy with the wrong people," Richard noted. "Nothing more..."

If Jerry suspected there was more to the story than that, he gave no indication. Bruce Wayne, a minor lord in the North, had a reputation as a fool with more money than common sense, so it only felt appropriate that a member of his House would be so impulsive.

“Word of advice to you, Dick my boy,” Jerry wheezed, “never trust a man who speaks in strange tongues.”  
"Whatever," came the dry reply.

Meanwhile, Lord Stark was en route to the Wall, accompanied by two of his most loyal lieutenants: Ser John the Shepherd, and Sheriff Harald Callahan of the Neck. Their presence was important to drive home the solemnity of the upcoming event. He thought about bringing Bran, to teach him...but...not quite yet...

The mood in the camp was dreary. Death was always a sullen affair, as it was a job to do...a grim job. Life was taken, never able to be given back. The expectation was that Lord Stark would do the deed himself. It wouldn't be the first time, either. He was a man who was used to doing his own dirty work, something not too many other lords could say. As he arrived with his two compatriots, there was no fanfare of any kind, save for a few gestures of respect from the Watch. The trio made their way to the scaffold as silently as mourners at a funeral.

Within the compound, another guardsman entered the area with the cells, prompting Grayson to rise to his feet and unlock the cell door. With a heavy sigh, Jerry stood as well, his haggard face illuminated by the dim candlelight. Where he had been vibrant and clean shaven, he was now gaunt and bore a full, matted beard. Years of disappointment showed on his features, looking decades older than his thirty-five years.

So this was it, eh? A sad life coming to a sad end. He headed out, flanked by his jailers. They didn't bind him; even if he did run, there was nowhere he could go for miles around. And running would only make things worse, much as it seemed they couldn't.

Jerry fought to remain stoic. He knew Sheriff Callahan, or Dirty Harry as he was known to most, would be there alongside his lord. That meant any display of weakness would stick out like a plague sore, as Nords believed that one should display fearlessness in the face of death no matter what.

Some Northmen had gone so far as to adopt that credence. He breathed deeply, trying to relax and keep calm for this, as he went to meet the next realm...all starting here.

Soon, he stood before the chopping block. Lord Stark stood beside it, his greatsword unsheathed and held pointing downward in sentry position. To his left was Ser John, his helmet under his arm. On the other side, arms folded and cloak pushed behind his shoulders, was Dirty Harry. His belt of Valyrian steel throwing knives, ever present, hung from his waist. Only he wore an expression of contempt, but Jerry avoided eye contact with him. It was customary to allow the condemned man to speak his final words, and Jerry knew exactly what to say.

"I know I let you down," he said in a ragged voice. A final cup of water before the long walk had done little to soothe his throat. "When I came to the Wall, I thought I was a broken man. Deserted by my wife, forgotten by my children, my smithy in ruins, I thought I could sink no lower. I had nothing left to lose, and still I failed. This is my fa... my..."

Breaking down...but not from death itself...but by the bad hand life dealt.

Thankfully, Harry was silent, just staring. The man was soon gone...not much else to take now...

Bowing his head, Ned raised his sword with both hands. The familiar heft of the ancestral blade felt almost too heavy for a moment as he eyed the unfortunate man's exposed neck.

Poor Jerry wouldn't be suffering much longer. Down came the sword. Quick and painless came the blow. The sentence had been carried out.

The Watch would collect Jerry's remains and give them a proper burial, the least he deserved now that he was free of his oath. Harry waited until they'd dispersed before muttering, "Pitiful. Might as well have kept his mouth shut."

"Watch your tongue, Nord," John snapped. "These are men who have already given up their lives! You have no place telling them-"

"Gentlemen, please," Ned interrupted, stepping between his lieutenants. "Everyone faces death in their own way. This man knew what he had done, and showed his remorse. There is dignity in that."

"Well...yeah," Harry admitted to himself as he mounted his horse to head on back.

For all his rivalry with the hot-blooded Shepherd, he was keen to take his lord's words to heart. He was not the sort of man who shared his feelings easily, not since his beloved, Agathe, passed from a fever.

But the North was not the only place on the continent of Midteros to be holding an execution that day, for in the country of Panem, another young soldier was about to meet his end. And not in a nice way either.

His crime was quite different from desertion, but no less serious. This young man had murdered a fellow soldier over a petty disagreement. As a fairly young nation, Panem held its citizens, let alone its soldiers, to high standards. This meant making an example of anyone who fractured that carefully crafted image of normalcy. And unlike the Northlands, Panem employed torture.

Drake chuckled as he entered the torture chamber, seeing the latest gimp still strapped into the garrote chair. Billy Hargrove was his name, but to Drake and the other torturers he was just a gimp.

"Still kicking, eh?" Drake remarked as he drew closer. "I'll give you one thing, gimp, you're good at staying awake. Most of the meat that comes through here black out within an hour."

Billy glanced at Drake, too tired to glare. He was barely keeping his head up to avoid letting the thin iron wire taut against his throat from pulling tight. So some top-heavy jackass was the one to grab him, eh? How pathetic...

“Hey, at least all you did was kill a man,” the penguin grinned. “If you’d fucked him, we’d break out the cock-and-ball thrasher.”

“Shut your beak, you deformed waterfowl,” came the defiant reply, “and just get it done with.”

“Ooh, a little fight left in ya,” Drake remarked, cracking his knuckles. “Fine by me.”

With that, he released Billy from the chair and shoved him against the wall... and felt a glob of spit hit his beak.

“GAH!”

Grabbing the beaten and weary youth by the throat, Drake proceeded to punch him repeatedly in the stomach. Just then...

“Is enough, giant chicken man,” a low, rumbling voice boomed behind Drake, who stopped mid-punch as Billy coughed up blood. Standing in the doorway was none other than Panem’s foremost heavy siege weapons specialist, Mikhael. Despite his slow and deliberate manner, he was as sharp as they came, and a consummate professional in all his duties.

Even torture. A dark mind hid behind the stoic face.

“His time has come...let us be off.”

Grinning again, Drake muttered, “Hear that, gimp? You’re getting the world’s closest shave!”

With that, he proceeded to shackle Billy’s hands and feet before dragging him by the scruff of his neck towards Mikhael. Hardly a necessary precaution given the days of abuse Billy had just been through, but it drove the point home.

Damn...so to die in front of so any assholes.

What a way to go.

Here in Panem, execution was a public spectacle. After all, what better way to keep bothersome children in line than to show them what happens to those who break the law?

But the common rabble weren’t the only ones there, as an entire military unit had turned out to watch as well. Billy’s unit.

Among them was the unit head Mòrag Ladair, a female human who was known for her toughness and strict nature...but also a code of honor and a desire to protect all. Though outwardly stoic, it crushed her to know that one of her own had committed such a heinous crime. As Mikhael and Drake appeared on the scaffold with Billy in chains between them, she heard one of her men behind her mutter, "By the Father, that's Billy Hargrove! His bunk was right next to mine!"

"He shall be sleeping alone from now on," Mòrag muttered back, her tone carrying a hint of bitterness.

It had to be done, though...for the leaders demanded it. An example must be made.

King Snow, surprisingly, had no interest in presiding over executions. He had delegated this duty to Burton Villers, who ascended to the scaffold and looked out at the assembled crowd.

"Citizens," he announced, "we come to carry out and witness the death of a common murderer. This man," he gestured to Billy, "took the warrior's oath, and thus carried the trust of Panem. And what did he do? He slit the throat of his brother-in-arms!"

A chorus of jeers and threats came from the baying crowd at this, while Billy simply glared out at them. Guy was a dick. Surprised no one did it earlier. Well... hopefully he would hurry up here.

"Before we administer this stroke of cold steel," Villers leered, savoring the attention of the crowd, "it is customary to allow the condemned to speak."

Mikhael placed a heavy hand on Billy's back and whispered, "Make it quick."

Staring out at the crowd, Billy said in a voice as cracked and cold as the skin on a frozen corpse, "I did this."

"And...?"

"Nothing else..."

Villers stared at the condemned man for a moment, impassive. Then he broke into a grin and said, "As you wish. Proceed, gentlemen."

Misha and Drake shoved Billy into a kneeling position, head on the block. Ah, so this was death, eh?

How dumb and boring.

"Get on with it, sons of whores!" Billy snapped.

"Da," Mikhael grunted, hefting the headsman's axe. In his usual slow and deliberate manner, he hovered the edge over Billy's neck, aiming his strike before raising the terrible weapon over his head. Without fanfare or warning, he brought it down with all his strength...

And that was that. A clunk of the head falling and blood flowing.

Drake lifted it up for the cheering masses to see... but Mòrag and her soldiers were as sullen as mourners at a funeral. Unlike the civilians, they would have to file past their disgraced comrade's severed head as they left and look it in the eyes. It was humiliating.

In time, though... in time, they would make this realm a better place to live in... for all people...


	10. Innocencne

Princess Schala was in the second month of her travels with Maester Challenger and the Straw Hat Pirates. Since leaving Zeal, she'd come to learn how to live on the sea. It was no easy thing, and she found herself pitching in to help with all aspects of sailing Challenger's ship. Privately, she wondered if her mother would balk at the sight of her mopping the deck and stitching sailcloth.

But to Schala, this was all so amazing. Never before had she felt so fulfilled. This was a chance to be someone else for a change, not living under the expectations of the royal court. A time to see new things and learn more.

Who knew what else lay ahead of them?

She would soon receive her answer. After much arguing between the two shipmasters, Challenger and Luffy finally agreed to dock at the next beach they came across to have a small celebration before charting their next course. It was... interesting to see both of those strong-willed men jaw back and forth at each other. Thankfully no one passed out.

However, it would not be a beach exactly they would come across in the seas...

No, they would wind up landing at something far less inviting. In the meantime, however, Ser Roxton kept his crewmates' spirits up with various tales of his adventures.

"The first time I tried my hand at jousting was not my finest moment," the red-haired gentleman daredevil said wryly as he steered the ship. "Plate armor can only do so much for you when you're flat on your back."

Always cracks to be exploited, and armor tended to weigh people down.

Schala listened as she worked, taking in the exploits of the world. Around her, others were fishing. Lenny and Carl, those two inseparable sailors, were fond of catching some fish when they had a moment to spare. Who knew what could be lurking the seas?

The ship kept on moving...and suddenly, something showed on the horizon. Carrot, the Straw Hats' lookout, peered ahead with her keen eyes to see what it was. An island of some sort? Or maybe a large ship?

"FOREIGN OBJECT, DEAD AHEAD!" she shouted, her chipper voice carrying down to both crews. Immediately, everyone came out on deck, alert and ready. A lax attitude to anything could lead right to a watery grave. Not today!

Slowly, the ships approached the shadowy presence in the distance. What would they find?

Enemies? Allies? Treasure? Monsters? The closer they got, the more obvious it became that the foreign object was no peaceful beach. No, it was something far more sinister. Dread filled their hearts as they all gazed up on it.

Before them was an immense tower, built at the edge of a sheer cliff. It was an imposing black structure, with a great ball of light at the very top. What the heck was that? Nothing good. Perhaps they should steer clear of it. That would have been the plan... except for an unnoticed outcropping of rocks that Challenger's ship failed to avoid.

CRUNCH!

Damn it.

"Blast it all!" Challenger growled. "Make for the shore while we can!"

And so, salvaging what rations and supplies they could, they got onto the Thousand Sunny, which carried them ashore. Well...this was crappy...but hopefully things would not be that bad. As the crew were getting their bearings, Franky took stock of Challenger's ship.

"Tch, this doesn't look good," the shipwright remarked. "The hull's punctured clean through. If I had the right lumber, I could patch it up no sweat."

Any lumber on this island? Time to look.

With no choice, all got off on shore, and Schala took stock of things. The island seemed to be shrouded in a strange mist. As for the tower, it looked like it was cared for, so the place could be populated.

Friendly? Hard to say, but had to find out. It seemed innocent enough to at least try. She stepped up to the tower, looking for some sort of door to knock on. Solid stone, it seemed...no way in at first. Odd...

Had to keep looking.

Taking a deep breath, Schala concentrated her mana and tried to visualize a means of entrance into the tower. Something glowed....

A hidden passage...how typical. Already this spoke ill...but what choice did they have at the moment? Reaching out, she pressed on the corresponding loose stone, and part of the wall gave way to reveal a winding staircase. Hmmm... she conjured a light ball as Challenger came up to her.

"Well...what have we here?"

He took a moment to observe his pupil's handiwork.

"Quite resourceful, child," he thundered in approval, giving Schala yet another heavy pat on the back. She almost lost focus on her light, but recovered quickly. "If nothing else, this structure might give us a decent view of the isle!"

At this, he let out a loud whistle to call the rest of the company's attention to the tower. But what could be hidden here? Empty? Or something...unwholesome.

Well...best take a look and see.

"If I may accompany you, your highness," Brook offered, his sword cane at the ready. Pervert or not, the Straw Hat crew musician was a powerful asset in a fight, and quick on the draw. Good for a dark place. Schala nodded and in she went, with Brook and Challenger.

Immediately she noticed how dank the structure was. Raising her scarf up over her mouth and nose, Schala continued upward. Right...just breathe and focus...how old was this place? The walls were as smooth as glass, without even the slightest imperfections. For all any of them knew, this structure could have sprung up the day before. Additionally, the stairs seemed to go up indefinitely, as if they were taller than the tower itself. Dark magic was at work here, that was for sure.

A thing of Chaos, or something else? Whatever it was, they'd soon have their answer. The first sign was a low, grinding rhythm coming from just above.

"Ah, such discordant tones," Brook muttered. "What torture for the ears... if I had any."

Yes, yes, the undead jokes, as usual. The noise grew in volume as they ascended, until at last the stairs terminated into a large room, and what was within...chilled them.

A ceremony of sorts was in progress... people in dark robes, congregated around a glowing altar. They had not seem to notice the three yet, allowing the trio to take in the situation more. A cult? And...a sacrifice?

Sure enough, two of the robed figures escorted someone up to the altar: a young woman, blonde, garbed in a white dress, no older than Schala by the looks of her. As she watched, Schala had to put a hand to her mouth to keep from letting out a gasp when she noticed that the maiden was bound and gagged! She was kidnapped and ready for the slaughter! Not good!

They had to do something, fast! Schala looked to her two companions. Challenger had his loaded staff at the ready, and Brook was already primed to draw his cane sword. The two men stood as if awaiting command. Well...no one was noticed yet, and she prepared a bolt of electricity...just wait for the right moment.

She nodded to them before they fanned out, each taking a different vantage point on the ceremony. Meanwhile, the captive whimpered into the thick rag bound across her mouth as she was laid across the altar. The symbol of Slaaneshcould be seen about the room. A foul Chaos God, he/she was a being of excess and debauchery, dedicated to sensation without limits.

While not religious herself, Schala could understand the need for spiritual health, but sacrificing innocent maidens to an Eldritch being went far beyond the pale. Her hands crackled softly with lightning as she set herself in position. The head priest of the congregation stood behind the altar, looming over the sobbing girl, and began to speak.

"The Prince of Pleasure will bless us today," he boomed, "for we have a virgin for him to share in the great of all sensations! An eternal celebration of madness and greatness!"

Saying this, he raised a dagger with both hands to plunge into the whimpering girl's stomach... but Schala wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Concentrating her magic, she let loose with a bolt of lightning, straight at the steel blade of the dagger, allowing it to travel up the steel and into the cult leader himself! He convulsed for a moment, the electricity cooking him alive, before falling to the floor in a lifeless heap. Then, before the cultists could react, Brook was upon them. With his skeletal body, he could move faster than the eye could perceive, his blade imbued with the icy touch of death. Several cultists fell dead.

Meanwhile, Challenger made for the altar and scooped up the frightened girl, carrying her over his shoulder and striking anyone who tried to stop him with his loaded staff. Other cultists began to prepare themselves, their hoods falling back to showing their warped, mutated faces.

The cost of serving Chaos.

Schala followed up her first attack spell with a slew of others, all aimed to keep the cultists at bay. Brook, meanwhile, broke out his violin and started playing a soothing tune. It should be noted that Brook's playing had a hypnotic effect on the weak-minded, and sure enough, several cultists stopped what they were doing, making them easy targets for the skeleton bard's blade.

But even though he thinned the herd, there were more to worry about. They'd saved the girl; it was time to make their exit. Away from the decadent bastards! Run! Back down and seal the entrance!

Hopefully the rest of the crew could provide backup. They flew down the stairs together, hurrying for their own lives as much as for the young girl, who had fainted away from the stress of the ordeal. Ahead of them, at the foot of the stairs, the doorway awaited them.

Not much farther now...

Challenger punched it open, alerting the others, who stood tall.

"SEAL THE DOOR BEHIND US!" he thundered as Schala and Brook came out with him. "THIS IS A TOWER TO SLAANESH!"

He didn't need to ask twice.

Everyone used all available means to bring it down. Any cultists who managed to reach the ground floor were obliterated before Robin used her powers to slam and hold the door shut. Franky sealed it shut with carpentry materials. Jinbei let loose a powerful shockwave punch capable of penetrating solid structures, destabilizing the tower. Bring the whole wretched thing down on them to finish them off and crush any trace of them!

Before long, the terrible tower came collapsing down on its foundation, crushing all still within.

"Could any of them still be alive?" asked Lenny.

"If so, they would likely be horribly mangled," Robin coolly observed. More so than already...but hey...what could one do now? Attention then turned to the rescued young woman. Her hands were tied behind her back with coarse rope, ankles with the same, while a thick black cloth was tied across her mouth as a gag. She was still out cold and dazed from the experience.

"Let me take a look at her," Chopper insisted, taking out his medicine bag. Despite his innocent looks, the little reindeer had a keen intellect, having mastered the art of healing thanks to the Human Human Fruit, which gave him human intelligence. At once, he got to work, removing the unconscious maiden's bonds and gag before examining her vitals. Schala took a look over her, taking over her details. A pretty girl, with long blond hair flowing.

"Ah, such a picture of innocence," Sanji sighed.

"Poor thing must be in shock," Pudding muttered. "Who knows what terrible memories she has?"

"Don't even think about it," Nami deadpanned, glaring at the three-eyed woman. Pudding huffed, clearly put out by the mere suggestion that she would use her powers to alter the unconscious girl's memories.

"No bickering now," Schala stated. "We need to get her healed and safe so-"

"UNHAND HER RIGHT NOW!!"

Everyone stopped and turned toward the source of the voice. Standing there was a young man with long brown hair, his clothes tattered and his face bruised. In his right hand was a rapier, and he had a crazed look in his eyes.

"Who're you?" asked Luffy, casually picking his nose and completely unconcerned.

"That...is none of your business, pirate!" The youth spat. "I won't let you harm her!"

"You had best set down that sword, young man," Ser Roxton said in a calm voice. His arms were folded, neither of his hands anywhere near the hilt of his own sword.

"And keep your head on, boy!" Challenger boomed. "We just SAVED her from a bunch of mad cultists, looking to plunge a dagger right into her."

"Who is this girl to you?" asked Schala, placing herself between the group and the youth's sword tip. "She may need to see a friendly face when she awakes."

The youth stammered, unsure what to make of the blue-haired maiden before him. She had a calming aura...which was he needed after what had happened in the past few days....death, blood, madness...

Could he really let his guard down?

"Who are you?" he croaked, tightening his grip on his sword.

"I am Schala," the princess replied, bowing politely despite the rapier tip still hovering in her direction. "So her name is Constance? That's a lovely name."

The youth was quiet, as if processing all that he'd seen and heard. Slowly, he lowered the sword.

"You... you're not the ones who carried her off," he said at length. Good...calmed down a bit. Time to chat.

"What is your name?" asked Schala.

"D'Artagnan," the youth replied. "I am... I was a musketeer."

That was an attention grabber right there. Musketeers were a rare breed of warriors, trained extensively in the use of flintlock weapons as well as blades. Midteros never quite adopted muskets due to their comparative unwieldiness, and the fact that there was a tenuous peace between its dominant nations.

"Any other comrades?" Challenger asked.

"No...many died due to...Kremlings..."

Schala and the others exchanged glances. Kremlings... there was a nasty bunch for sure. They were a race of crocodile beastfolk with an affinity for piracy and pillaging, but under their current leader, King K. Rool, they'd been growing bolder. They had tried to kidnap Constance to rape her...but D'Artagnan managed to help her, and they escaped the horrific massacre. Friends and family...dead. They had escaped out to sea, hoping to sail to somewhere safe... only to run aground here. Where the cult of Slaanesh found them. Separated in the madness, and nearly going mad with stress...

All he knew was that she was gone, and he needed to find her. She was all he had left. In his frantic search across the island, he'd seen the tower in the distance... only to watch it crumble. For all he knew, she could have been in there. Desperate, he ran for the site of the toppled structure to find Constance surrounded by strange people, some of them armed, with a beastfolk like nothing he'd ever seen hunched over her still body.

All of this, leading up to the present moment, and the conclusion of his account. All had sat down on rocks to help absorb this all. Schala took it all in, thinking about what to do. There was no way she could just ignore any of this.

"What a tragic story!" Franky wailed, bawling his eyes out. "Dammit, I'm not crying!"

"How awful for both of you!" Nami cried, recalling her own trauma at the hands of the fishman supremacist Arlong.

"From one gang of monsters to another, and no honor between them!" Sanji scoffed. Other reactions abounded. Schala, however, had made up her mind. Unlike Luffy, she didn't need an emotional attachment to someone to do right by them.

"Come with us," she stated.

"Wha-"

"You have no home, and simply wandering about will do you no good."

D'Artagnan was overwhelmed. Could this really be happening? He never expected to find such kindness in life ever again, but if these people could save Constance with no ulterior motive...

"Th-thank you," he croaked, his voice raspy and quavering.

Challenger nodded. "Right then, boy. Repairs should be underway soon. Let's get out of this dismal place."

Franky, ever the resourceful shipwright, used the wood salvaged from D'Artagnan's wrecked skiff to fix Challenger's ship, the Beauty of Jessica, in a matter of minutes. Soon, both the Beauty of Jessica and the Thousand Sunny were back out at sea, with the two new travelers resting and recuperating in Chopper's care. Schala looked out to sea. So many dangers out there, even here, away from her homeland. All ready and willing to strike.

When she left home, she had consoled herself that she would be surrounded by people who would keep her safe. But now that she had met those two castaways, the princess felt a spark of protectiveness of her own.

For the future, she would protect them!


End file.
